


The Woods

by scurvaliciousbay



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dirthalene, F/M, Feynite Fan Works, Mana'din AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-06 19:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scurvaliciousbay/pseuds/scurvaliciousbay
Summary: Set in Feynite's Mana'din AU, ancient Elvhenan.Andruil's death sends her hunters into chaotic disarray. Miriel along with a small group flee to the woods. A hundred years later, they are discovered by the soon to be lords of the land. Unbeknownst to them, there is a hidden danger in the woods. Miriel and the lordling Darevas, son of Dirthamen and Selene, must work together to find the danger and save Miriel's people from certain death.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Darevas and Felasel belongs to SeleneLavellan
> 
> Uthvir belongs to Feynite

There is a certain amount of chaos that results from Andruil’s death. Miriel’s parents are quick to get them all out of the vicinity of other hunters. They’re a pack of vultures, ready to pick the bones of opportunity dry, but for her small family, they simply want to survive.

But because they are hunters, they know the woods well. They hide and hunt just enough to stay alive, waiting for the chaos to die down. In the process, they come across others and in time they form what the older members call a clan. It’s temporary, they all say. Just until they can make sure that they won’t be hunted themselves or somehow wrongly implicated in Andruil’s death.

But time drags on, years upon years pass and the idea of rejoining society becomes more difficult. And despite everything, they have done well for themselves.

They have makeshift structures, a miniature government consisting of representatives from each original group of runners. Caution sits for Miriel and her father, Tassan. There are four other representatives, and they get along as well as any government does, Miriel supposes.

Many of the people they’ve run into aren’t hunters, they’re not even properly skilled with weapons, but there is a tanner, a cook, and a few intelligent servants who have adapted well to the circumstances.

Every few years, they send someone out to see if they can rejoin society, to give authorities their location and then relay information to them that it’s safe to come out. But no one has returned, not in the now one hundred years they’ve been here.

She knows it seems dramatic that it’s been so long, but it isn’t so dramatic when considering she was thirty when it all began. Formally an adult but still a child to many, including her overly protective parents.

That being said Miriel is one of the few hunters now responsible for the majority of their food supply. She ventures out from the camp frequently to hunt, and often by herself since they are so few. While they are significantly removed from society, it’s temporary, they know this. They don’t violate any of the laws set forth from the leaders otherwise.

There’s this big speech they’re going to give to capitulate once they are assured that everything is safe again.

But Miriel is dubious. She likes this life. It is chaotic and not as lavish as they life she lived previously, but it is honest and good and away from the threat of sacrifices and ridiculous standards. The woods have granted them a certain amount of freedom and she wonders if they really will be allowed to peacefully integrate with the rest of Elvhenan again.

It is a calm day when Miriel leaves once again. She’s hoping to catch a deer or something sizeable, they haven’t had a large catch in over a week and it’s beginning to strain. She pulls her hair back and ventures out with her bow and quiver.

She finds trail signs of a deer not far from the camp and begins to track it. If she’s lucky, it’s a buck. Whatever it is, it’s sizeable and warrants following. It takes her hours of tracking it down to see it…and beyond it a sizeable contingent of soldiers, all bedecked in exceptional finery. The kind of finery very few are permitted to wear, if she remembers correctly. The two at the front wear the most refined of the armors, while the others are dressed in what appear to guard uniforms. She counts ten in total, heavily armored and armed enough to rouse suspicion and concern.

She could still trace the deer, follow it, kill it, bring it home and ignore the strangers, but the strangers could be potential threats to the camp. This could be the indication that their time apart has come to an end.

Miriel shifts into an eagle and flies up into the canopy, watching the strangers closely.

The two at the front look regal, almost like Andruil had. Their faces are masked and the guards behind them all bear Dirthamen’s vallaslin. She knows…very little of Dirthamen’s people, all things considered. But she has heard that he wears a mask, so perhaps it is now in trend for his high ranked people to wear them as well? She is unsure but it her best guess for now.

Her eyes follow them closely and one of their ears twitch before he looks up at the tree she is perched in. Miriel remains still as he slowly turns back to the other barefaced man.

They’re too far away for her to hear what he says but the other man looks up at her roost. Her wings twitch. She flies away to a new tree, one that is closer to the camp and waits to see if they pass by it. When they come up on the ridge, she feels an overwhelming need to dive down and harass them in some fashion. They need to leave.

But no, they all knew this would happen eventually.

She has two options – either fly back to camp and prepare _them_ or approach these people and hope to explain the situation before anything gets out of –

A net suddenly wraps around her, heavy and clunky, dragging her down, screeching and flailing. The world spins as her wings beat only to entangle her further. This kind of fall could kill her in her current form, she needs to shift.

Assholes knew that would happen.

Miriel shifts back into her elven form, stretching and breaking some of the netting, but not all as she collapses to the floor of the woods. The wind in her lungs is forced out of her and she wheezes as her vision blanks out. Her head…it hurts, she thinks.

She hears the dull thudding of hooves around her and she distantly realizes that the princes and their guards have found her. Shit. She needs to sit up, explain. _Move_ , she demands of her body. She tries to lift her head only for it to spin and she hisses in pain.

“One of the Nameless?” A voice says.

“It is hard to tell. She wears Andruil’s old markings and that looks like old Hunter leathers.” A second voice, younger.

“What is she doing out here?” A third voice says, as young as the second but quieter – suspicious.

“Maybe she was trying to escape the chaos? Other low ranking Hunters have been found in the woods.” The second voice says.

“Yes, _dead_. Who’s to say she isn’t the one who killed them?” The third replies.

“Who’s to say she did?” The second says.

“There is little point in debating this when the only person who can confirm or deny it is in no state to answer,” the first voice interjects. Rational, older.

“True. Take her back to our father’s lands, we’ll interrogate her there.”

 _Interrogation._ No. She knows what happens in those, she can’t – no, no. Hands wrap around her arms to pick her up and she means to zap them or fight but everything _hurts_ in that moment. They move her and her blood rushes and then everything goes black.

**

The pounding in her head is unlike anything she’s ever experienced. They used _slow_ healing on her, an encouragement she supposes for her to talk and answer truthfully. Her mouth is dry and judging by the emptiness in her stomach, they have either not bothered or managed to feed her. More incentive.

She needs none. But their hostility towards her is alienating in itself and she worries that this is what her clan may face. Will they all be interrogated to make sure they were not treasonous in their desperate bid to not die at the hands of other ruthless Hunters or other opportunists who kill indiscriminately?

Miriel opens her eyes slowly to a dimly lit room, a shadowed figure in the corner.

“You wake,” they figure says. She licks her lips.

“Yes. Water?” Her throat is unbearably scratchy and dry. The figure moves forward, a glass of water in their grasp. Their face bears Mana’din’s markings though, when she was expecting Dirthamen’s. Odd.

They don’t hold the water to her lips or loosen her restraints, just hold the water in their grasp.

“Need…to talk,” she says, wincing at the pain in her throat. They watch her for a moment before lifting the cup to her lips. She drinks it greedily, gulping it down quickly in fear they will take it from her. But they don’t, and allow her to breathe a moment afterwards.

“Talk,” they say.

Water drips from her lips as she looks up at them, “My mother and father were high ranking Hunters for Andruil. They could have vied for power in the wake of her death but they had me, and I was only beginning to climb the ranks. It was…chaos. Ranks closed in, people were eager to prove themselves, to weed out loose links. So we ran.”

“What are your parents’ names?”

“Tassan and Caution. They’re probably terrified.”

“Your name.”

“Miriel.”

They pause then, returning to their corner. They pick something up and she realizes there’s a table.

“There were seventy-eight reported missing individuals from Andruil’s lands after her demise. You, your father, and mother were all on that list.” Far more than the group she lived with, but that could easily be explained dead and other missing. Who’s to say their little enclave is the only one? Being so close to Ghilan’nain’s lands afforded them the protection of benevolent negligence.

Choices, choices. Lie, and they very well may kill her or torture her. Possibly both. They could name her a traitor anyways, though, that happens all the time. She could tell the truth, and they still may torture and kill her. And then torture and kill the people she’s come to see as family over the years.

She could attempt to bargain, but they could lie and hurt them all anyways.

Miriel remains quiet and they turn towards her.

“How old are you, Miriel?” They know the answer to that, it’s public record. One hundred thirty. Young, a shame for her to die.

“One hundred thirty-seven,” she replies, “I was thirty when the Lady Andruil died.” They turn back to her and stroll forward.

“Why have you not attempted to rejoin society?”

She licks her lips. Tricky question that will answer more than question depending on how she’ll answer.

“We were scared.”

They raise an eyebrow, “Lying by omission is still lying. One chance to change your answer. Why have you remained hidden?”

There is the glint of a blade and she resists the urge to whimper. Her stomach growls and she sags against her restraints.

“It was a free for all when she died. Many of the higher ups would have hurt me, or my mother, my father. And many, many others. I left with my parents. Over time we ran into others like us. We worked together. But it was just to survive, you have to understand, we didn’t do anything against the law, we just…worked together. Every few years we sent someone out to see if it was safe but they never returned. We sent out twelve people.”

There is a long pause before she realizes that they’ve left. She blinks and tries to look around the room. Is there anything she can use, anything to –

The door opens and the torches are suddenly all lit. She winces, closing her eyes against the harsh light.

“Take her to the healers, give her food and water,” her interrogator says. She blinks the spots away, in shock.

“What?” She says softly, watching as several servants wearing Mana’din’s vallaslin of all things rush in to start untying her. The person who is presumably her interrogator stands at the door.

“If what you say is true, then you will lead us to your camp. You need healing and sustenance for that.”

Her brow furrows as she steps down from the chair she was strapped into.

“If I am to lead you to them then promise me that they will not be harmed. We did what we had to survive,” she says, trying to sound stronger than she actually feels.

“I promise,” they say but she bares her teeth. They’re _lying_.

Servants guide her onto a moving cot and they disappear before she can respond them. Dammit. Worry sinks into her as she’s carted through what she guesses is a palace. The dungeon, or wherever she is, is not nearly as gruesome as she’d expect, but then again she is used to Andruil when it comes to her Leaders, not Mana’din. Perhaps the rumors on her mercy towards her followers are not exaggerated? It could be so hard to tell, she remembers.

The room spins and she shuts her eyes. The pain in her head blooms anew and she curls against the cot as it continues to move. When it finally stops, she is urged to a new cot, one lower and stationary so that the healers can fuss over her.

The clan had one healing assistant, young and inexperienced. She has…scarred from various accidents and miscalculations over the years. The healers strip her and fuss over the raised flesh on her arms, one by her clavicle where she broke it falling out of a tree, on her legs, her hip. There are none on her face, thankfully, but they click their tongues in disapproval anyways. They redress her in a cotton shift and set to work.

They root through her hair and begin the slow process of healing her concussion. More people arrive with a small cart of food consisting of breads, fruits, cheeses, and some dried meats. There is a pitcher of water, though she almost would prefer wine considering her predicament.

They lied. There is no promise that no harm will come to her people, and it feels like she is expected to lead death to her family’s door. She nibbles on the food while the healers work as she tries to figure out a plan.

Hunters plan, Mamae liked to say. They always have an escape route – physical or otherwise.

One of the healers tuts, “Injuries like these require several sessions, you won’t be fit for an excursion to the woods for some time.”

“A shame,” a familiar voice says from across the room. Miriel looks up to see one of the masked men from the woods. She immediately diverts her eyes.

“I was looking forward to seeing more of the woods.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Perhaps if a net had not been so unceremoniously thrown at me, you could have explored further. Alas, I am injured,” she replies and the room falls silent.

“My Lord, she does not know,” one of the healers whisper and she frowns at the woman by her side.

But the man raises his hand and waves, “You have had no word of the state of affairs for over one hundred years, correct?” He asks directly to her.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Then she does not know who I am any more than I know who she is. I do recommend to at least know who you are sassing, however,” he says and she narrows her eyes.

“And who are you, then that I am sassing to warrant such a response?” She asks. Clearly, she has erred and she wishes to kick herself. But her head hurts and she is still ravenous, and this may be the one who is responsible for all of this – a little ire and sass is to be expected, but depending on his rank, anything may never be warranted.

He stands straighter and strides to the side of the cot, there is magic in his robes, behind his mask, practically brimming over. His robes are unlike anything she has ever seen, silver with great care to detail that carries out from the folds of a cowl around his neck all the way to the floor. He is gloved, hooded, in tall boots, completely covered from head to toe. And in that moment, she feels extremely exposed in her cotton shift.

“I am Darevas, son of Dirthamen and Selene, brother to Mana’din, grandson to Mythal and Elgar’nan, nephew to Sylaise and June. And you did not sass me, but my twin brother, Felasel.”

Her body goes cold. He is…to be one of the leaders. Most likely to lord over what was Andruil’s lands with his brother and she –

She bends herself forward in apology.

“I beg for mercy, my lord, I-I did not know.”

She expects deliberation or pain but instead she is given…laughter?

“Normally I’m the only one who can sass my brother. What is your name?”

“Miriel, my lord,” she answers, still in her prone position.

“That is a lovely name, Miriel,” he says, lingering on her name.

“I came to wish you well on your recovery, and to see if you were up to discussing the woods. But it appears you are unfit.” He turns to leave and she doesn’t resume a regular sitting position until he has gone.

The healers heave a sigh of relief, murmuring about being glad that the lord was merciful enough to not undo their work on her. But she is foolish, tempting wrath like that.

Miriel leans back into the cot and tries to plan. Hunter always have a plan and she needs to make one soon.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darevas and Felasel belong to SeleneLavellan
> 
> Faunalyn belongs to circadian_rythm

Alright, a plan. For any plan to be successful, it requires intel. Which she is sorely lacking at the moment. She’s had more than a hundred years to learn the woods around her camp, but less than thirty to learn how to navigate formal society, let alone a different leader’s palace.

She means to sneak out and explore a bit after all the healers have gone to sleep but they play dirty and give her a disgusting tasting potion that knocks her out for the next twelve hours. When she wakes, her stomach growls and her bladder demands attention. Her body aches from the last…few days and she wonders how terrified her parents and people must be right now.

Papae is probably demanding a search party with the support from Mamae and Varas. The three other hunters – Belaravas, Emmansal, and Ghilananin – are probably unsure if they should. The rest of the people are dependent on them for survival and with thirteen people now officially missing…there is something in the woods.

_Other hunters have gone missing_ , one of the voices had said during her capture. It could be any number of things – Nameless, one of Andruil’s old pets, one of Ghilan’nain’s pets that have gotten loose, a demon, maybe even rogue hunters. There are too many unknowns to fully know what’s out there.

Miriel relieves herself and makes her way to the baths just off the healer’s main room. It is…very different from the river she is accustomed to. There are five pools, each one with a different hue and scent. Only one resembles the water she is used to, but otherwise it’s a mystery to her.

“The normal pool is best for simple cleaning, the other pools are for different effects,” a healer says. She turns to them and smiles.

“Thank you. Is there any soap?”

They chuckle, move to a desk, and pull out a drawer to reveal…an impossibly large selection of soaps.

“Oh!”

“They differ in what they do and scents. What do you want to smell like?”

“Um. Clean?”

“All of them do that.” They look her up and down and not so subtly sniff at her. They reach into the back of the drawer and procure a simple square soap.

“A simple scent for deep cleaning and exfoliation.” They open another drawer and pull out a small vial, “for moisturization.” They open another drawer and pull out a much larger container, “for cleaning your hair. It is for cleansing, and smells like strawberries. And this,” another new vial, “will help make your hair soft.”

By the end of their speech, her arms are full of all these new soaps and things. She carefully shuffles to the edge of the normal looking pool and sets her soaps on the ledge before undressing.

Miriel slowly sinks into the warm water, _warm_ water, and is reminded of her life before Andruil died, when this was normal. She washes herself and marvels at the difference in how her hair feels afterwards, even still wet.

She is given a simple brown robe to wear. It’s too long on her short body and she feels oddly small in it as she returns to her cot. There’s a small tray of food waiting for her and she eats it quickly enough.

The healers crowd around her and begin to murmur their spells around her head. They feed her more potions that she gags at, but they insist.

The door at the end of the room opens again and a familiar masked figure walks in. He’s either in a different robe, a deep iridescent blue, or this is his brother. Either way, Miriel bows her head and pointedly looks at her feet.

“Good morning, my lord,” she says.

“Hello, Miriel,” he says, taking a seat next to the cot. She peeks out from behind her hair to see a tall woman sit next to him. She is wearing only some of Dirthamen’s Vallaslin, on her cheeks and nose though her forehead and chin are bare. Something about her is familiar, but Miriel can’t quite place her.

“This is Faunalyn, Miriel. She was a Hunter for Andruil as well,” Lord Darevas says. Miriel cautiously lifts her head to look at the woman and yes, that makes sense, her posture and gaze all communicate a Hunter’s disposition.

“Your parents are Tassan and Caution? I knew them, good people. I just need to take all the names of the people you’ve been living with.”

Miriel watches Faunalyn pulls out a journal and quill and wonders what her new role is. Glorified note taker or servant is a low for someone who was so highly ranked.

She goes through the list in her head, she’s sure she repeats a few names but they listen and Faunalyn gets them all down. The Lord watches and remains quiet as she talks about her friends and family, describes how they lived. She wishes she could see his expression, any sort of indication of what he thinks.

People are more difficult to understand than animals, and infinitely more important to understand because they have a greater impact on how things will go. His emotions are kept close and calm, no line there, and with no facial expressions she finds herself to be in the dark.

Faunalyn nods as she speaks, even comments on a few of the people she recognizes. Most though are all unknowns, the invisible low-ranking servants who did what they could to get by, which did not involve being noticed by highly ranked Hunters.

“Thank you,” Faunalyn says, closing the journal.

“What would you recommend we do once we find these people?” The Lord asks and Miriel snaps her attention to him.

“ _I’d_ recommend you understand the incredible chaos there was around that time and that instead of hurting other people, we all decided to remove ourselves until it was safe. I was only thirty, several of us were former traumatized victims trying to survive,” Miriel says, her gaze fierce and unwavering to his mask. To his credit, he remains still.

“ _Miriel_ ,” Faunalyn snaps, “that is no way to speak to your Lord. Clearly the woods and her head injury have left her rude and insubordinate.”

“They are my family, please understand.”

“And he is your lord, you do not –

“Please, Faunalyn. If I was in her situation, I would be even less cordial. Miriel, I will do my best proven that there have been no violations of law, I see no reason why we cannot accept hard working, resourceful people back into the fold.” His voice is kind and low and she wants to believe him, but sweet words mean nothing if there is no action behind them. But…it is the best she is going to get.

She backs down into the cot, pulling the robe closer to her.

“Thank you. I just want them safe, I…I was responsible for that. For them.”

He just sits there, unmoving and creepy. She hates the mask, she concludes. It’s weird. She knows it’s the whole _aesthetic_ of this part of the family, and she is willing to bet that there at least a few of his father’s followers that would have found Andruil’s wardrobe disturbing. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s wearing another face that doesn’t move and expects her to respond to it like a face.

Alright, fine. Maybe she’s just worked up…mask’s still creepy though.

“The woods are not an easy place to live in, even with twelve hunters working together. We got lucky, Paleris is a tanner, and Uthbora was a healer’s apprentice but she is probably a full fledged healer by now. Amevirin is a smith and his husband, Rasvir, is a tailor, which is a lot more important than you would think. He was instrumental in putting together tents, him and Paleris worked together endlessly. Them and Dahmeil. I…am rambling on about this, I’m sorry.”

“No, do not apologize. I wanted to know about the woods and this is your experience, I am…curious.” He tilts his head and Faunalyn raises an eyebrow at him. She gets a _look_ then conspicuously rises from her seat.

“I have other duties to attend to, my Lord. Miriel,” she says then walks away, leaving Miriel alone with Darevas. Lord Darevas.

“Is my candor amusing, my lord?” She asks and he shrugs.

“More like refreshing. It must be strange to come back to find out things have changed,” he leans forward and she shrugs.

“We were expecting things to be different. We all had bets on who would take over the territory.” She plucks at the ends of the robe, unsure if she should try to maintain eye contact with his mask. She looks for the blue she saw earlier, focuses in on that.

“What did you bet on?” He asks, his tone mirthful and light.

“It being divided up. I joked that the Hunters would be made Peacekeepers and what rotten Peacekeepers we’d be,” she chuckles, “I’d be an awful Peacekeeper.”

Humor suffuses the air and he laughs with her, “And why is that?”

“I like a certain amount of freedom, not an undue amount, of course, but being a Hunter…running through the woods in a chase…I’d hate to give that up.” Her voice turns wistful and unsure. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to continue to be that huntress anymore. Darevas and Felasel may completely restructure the lands and people, to make them compliment their sister and father more than to adapt to what is already there. Those very woods may be torn down to feed…whatever it is they may want to do.

“I would hate for you to give that up as well,” he replies softly. She blinks in confusion.

“Why? I-I mean, thank you?”

Perhaps Faunalyn is right, Miriel thinks. She’s been in the woods so long she’s forgotten how to properly address people who significantly outrank her, who hold her life in their hands.

“Why does that surprise you? People should not have to give up the things they love,” he answers as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. She smiles bitterly and worries the ends of the robe.

“With all due respect, my Lord, it’s not always that simple. We are your subjects, what you wish is what we do and sometimes that involves sacrifices. Sacrifices I am sure your grandmother can tell you a great deal about. For the People, always for the People,” she keeps her voice soft, to not accuse him, that would be breaching a line that even she knows not to cross.

He is quiet for a long moment. She shifts under his gaze, suddenly very conscious of the lack of armor and armaments on herself. But it is also the knowledge that he could hurt her, could lash out because of her words, and she could defend herself but if she did, it would be her death.

She waits for a blow that doesn’t come.

“I would not wish that for my subjects,” he says finally, with a resolution that surprises her.

“That is very good of you, my lord,” she replies and he bristles. She’s about to ask him when he takes off his gloves. Miriel shrinks away instinctively and he stops, hands bare, pale and without any callouses or other marks of work.

“There is the matter of your vallaslin,” he says softly. Oh, right, that makes sense. She sits up properly, closer to him and waits for him to begin the magic of reorienting the lines on her face.

“I spoke with my brother on who you would best be suited for, and considering that he couldn’t possibly handle your sass, I volunteered.”

“You are merciful indeed, my lord,” she jokes and he chuckles.

“Alright, hold still, this may prick a bit.”

He takes a deep breath and runs his hands over her face, magic sinking into her skin to erase and draw lines at the same time. Her cheeks tingle and her nose twitches against her will. He chuckles at the little movement and she blushes.

Once done, he pulls his hands away but he doesn’t put his gloves back on.

“There, much more up to date.” She lifts her fingers up to her cheeks. There’s no actual textural change, but there is a difference. If she could wiggle within the bounds of him not _really_ being her lord before, she can’t now.

Miriel turns her gaze to his hands, so different from the hands of the people she has lived with. Untouched by work and hardship.

“Is there something on my hands?” He asks, turning them over to inspect them himself.

“Oh no, they are simply different from what I’m used to. We all have unsightly callouses and scars and dry patches on our hands.” She holds her own hands out for comparison. She shows him the large callouses from wielding a bow and notching arrows. His hands come up and pause.

“May I?”

She blinks, surprised.

“Yes,” she replies and still he is tentative when he touches her hands. The softness of his fingers is odd against the roughness of her callouses. He traces up the center of her palm, circling around the roughness in her palm and up her fingers.

“We found you with a bow, is that your preferred weapon?”

“Yes.”

He flips her hands over and traces up to her wrists and he chuckles, “I know you are capable and there are many smaller people are just as capable in a fight but your hands are so _small_ , it’s a little odd to think of them holding a weapon.”

“And I find it hard to believe that you’re not constantly fumbling with your weapons with such large hands!” She teases back, pressing her hand up against his, palm to palm.

“What deftness can you accomplish?” She chuckles at the absurd comparison of their hands, her fingertips barely reaching above the middle bend of his fingers.

“That sounds like a challenge!” He says, wiggling his fingers. He turns to one of the healers and she swears he’s smiling behind that mask of his.

“When is she allowed to wield weapons?”

The healer sighs and looks at Miriel, “Two weeks. She needs to avoid anything that may rattle her brain, anything that will stress it. She cannot read, write, be around bright lights, be exposed to loud noises, or engage in any vigorous physical activity.” The healer’s eyes look Darevas up and down disapprovingly.

“Two weeks and then I can show you how deft I can be,” he tells her and she rolls her eyes.

“Whatever you wish, my lord.”

The door he came in through opens and she turns her gaze to see a similarly dressed masked figure enter the room. There are fewer details on his robe but it is finely made and there is a much different air around him.

“Brother,” he says and Darevas turns. So this is Felasel. She recognizes his voice from the woods and his mask…he’s the one who saw her first. She sits up straighter and her eyes dart to Darevas.

“Yes?” Darevas turns to Felasel.

“You are needed,” is all Felasel says, not even looking at Miriel. She supposes that’s much more normal than the interest Darevas has shown in her. Darevas nods and turns back to Miriel.

“I am being called away. It was good speaking with you, perhaps, if you are not averse, we could speak more?” He suggests and she inclines her head.

“As you like, my lord,” she replies but it doesn’t have the affect she was expecting. Darevas goes rigid and stands, and confusion flares around him briefly before he tamps it down. He stands up and leaves the room with Felasel, closing the door behind them with a solid _click_.

Well. That was a little odd.

She rises from her cot, her body still sore, but she needs to move. She hasn’t been this still for this long for…she can’t really recall the last time. There are some basic, low stress stretches she knows and she goes through them, slowly bending her body against the strain of the past two days. The robe provides to be a bit of a challenge to work around with all the extra fabric but she works with it.

She finishes stretching and finds her day suddenly very, very empty. Hm. She ties her hair up into a bun and sets out to explore any room they’ll let her.

She sets out through the healing wing, counting the number of healers milling around. There aren’t too many needing attention, and she does her best to keep her ears open to listen for anything helpful.

Most conversations are full of “where does it hurt?” and small talk to diminish whatever pain the person is in. Almost all of them wear Mana’din’s markings and eye her with barely restrained suspicion. She can’t blame them, she’s an unknown in their territory. All unknowns are to be treated with suspicion, they can all be dangerous even if they don’t mean to. One of Mamae’s many teachings.

The healing room she is in is a long rectangle with a few windows that allow Miriel to see a small garden just beyond the walls. She approaches one of the younger looking healers, carrying a change of sheets.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if I am permitted to walk the gardens? I am not used to being indoors for an extended amount of time. The walls feel like they’re closing in, it’s not very helpful for a recovery, you see,” she explains, smiling sweetly. The healer looks unimpressed however.

“Your stay here is a courtesy, you can sit back down in your cot.” The healer walks off and Miriel scrunches up her nose. That wasn’t very nice or understanding, and it’s not like she asked to be here. She was essentially kidnapped from her home. And they can’t even let her into a garden? What do they think she’ll do? Violate the plants or something? She has no cause to, she just doesn’t want to be stuck in a boring brick building that offers no fresh air. It smells like creams and ointments in here, unnatural and suffocating.

Fine. Permission was really just a courtesy anyways. She heads to an empty cot and waits until no one is looking to sneak under the cot. The movement makes her a little dizzy but she ignores it as she shrinks her body into that of a field mouse. The world spins briefly but she just needs to make it to the garden and she can shift back.

She scurries along the floor and sneaks out through the door to the garden. She makes it around a bend to where a bench is before shifting back.

A mistake. Her body waivers as she forces it into her elven shape. She makes it but the world spins and grows bright to an overwhelming degree. Everything feels like it presses in, she shuts her eyes, falls backwards onto the bench, and then everything goes blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uthvir belongs to Feynite
> 
> Darevas belongs to SeleneLavellan

Miriel wakes with a pounding in her head. She tries to open her eyes but everything is too bright. Her stomach protests the slightest movement with waves of almost overwhelming nausea.

“Was she attempting to run?” A voice asks, loud and garbled by the fuzz in her ears.

“I cannot say. She wanted to be in the garden, we told her she was not allowed and she went anyway.”

“She struggles with rules.”

“I have overheard her conversations with the Lord Darevas, it seems her social graces are non-existent.”

Right, no benefit of the doubt here. Just…suspicion. She is unknown and clumsy to them. But they seem to forget they are unknowns to her as well, just as suspicious. And by the sheer amount of her falling unconscious since encountering them she is willing to say they are a greater danger to her than she is to them. Not that they’ll listen to her now

But she can try.

She opens her mouth, dry and a bit painful but she can speak, “I just wanted to feel the sun.” Her voice is hoarse and gross but they both pause.

“You were told not to go out there.”

“…If your direct authorities were always your parents, wouldn’t you develop a sort of innate rebelliousness?” She asks. The pounding in her head spikes and she winces.

“That is enough talking, you need rest,” the healer says and Miriel feels the prickling of healing magic before she falls back into oblivion.

**

When she wakes next, there is no pounding in her head but her body is sore and weak. How long has she been laying down? She pries her eyes open and slowly forces herself to sit up. Her body is sweaty and pungent, her hair a rat’s nest, and still she is in that brown robe. 

The room is the same, with gray walls and a few cots occupied by randomly injured persons. Her head doesn’t hurt but it feels strange and she has the distinct feeling that a significant amount of time has passed. She turns to see a glass of water on her bedside table. She leans over and gulps it down just as a healer spies her.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” she says and hurries to Miriel’s bedside.

“I wasn’t trying to run,” Miriel says immediately and the healer waves her off.

“I believe you, but you still shifted while concussed. We put you into a magically induced coma to allow your brain to recover as much as it could without interference.”

Miriel blinks at her. A…coma?

“How long?” She whispers.

“Ten days. You still need a week to recover, but you should be safe to walk around,” she replies, checking over Miriel’s body to make sure she’s alright.

“If they’ll allow it.” She doubts they will since well…she hasn’t exactly shown she can be trusted with it.

“That depends on what you say now,” it’s her interrogator from earlier’s voice. She turns to them somewhat…surprised by their appearance. She thought them larger, but they can’t be that much bigger than her.

She blinks that at them while they loom over her, arms crossed, their face drawn into a disapproving scowl.

“You have taken such a keen interest in me, I promise no one in our camp is that important. My mother, Caution, is the highest ranked out of all of them. I-I gave you all the names and positions I swear. My stint in the garden was just…boredom and a need to not be inside.” The healer hands Miriel another potion which she drinks despite its horrid taste.

“Taking you at your word when you refuse to follow the rules brought before you is understandably difficult,” they say. There are spikes on their armor, all around their shoulders and gauntlets – a style she distantly remember hunters being fond of.

“It is like being in a cage,” she replies softly, “the ceiling is too low. And yes, I broke a rule, but it wasn’t to run – I don’t know this place, where exactly would I run to? And to whom? The only people I know are still in the woods, in danger from…something.”

They perk at that and step closer, “What are they in danger from?”

“I don’t know. It could be other rogue hunters, a demon, maybe one of Ghilan’nain’s beasts – we’re close to the boundary. Whatever it is, it is there and is dangerous. But you know that, otherwise you wouldn’t be taking such an interest in this,” she says. Their eyes narrow and she resists the urge to grin. She may not have many social graces but she can tell when someone is looking for something and they are digging deep.

“Twelve of ours have gone missing, how many have you lost?” She whispers.

“Have you seen any atypical marks in the ground? Tracks not made by hunters or typical game?”

“If we had, we would have tacked them ourselves.”

“How many caves are within the area? Grottos, outcroppings, large holes – anything that would allow someone or something to hide?”

“There are three caves, though we know for a fact that two of them are home to bears. We stayed clear of those, particularly when there were cubs. The third my mother always told me to stay away from, she said that she had a bad feeling about it.”

They nod and turn to wave what appears to be a guard over from the shadows.

“This is Sanaste, they’ll be monitoring you for the duration of your recovery. After you take us to your people, you will be expected to take us to this cave. I have other duties I must attend to now, do not do anything reckless,” the interrogator that reminds her entirely too much of the hunters of Andruil’s palace leaves and their underling approaches the bed.

“Are they always like that? All…’grr, spikey spikey, fear me’?”

Sanaste laughs and nods, “A bit yeah. You get used it, Uthvir is very professional, they take their work seriously.”

“Clearly. Am I permitted to walk around a bit?” She asks the healer and she snorts.

“Does my answer matter?”

“I am uninterested in passing out again, so yes it matters.”

“You may walk around, though I would advise against leaving the healing space right now. Sanaste, perhaps you could take her to the library on this side of the palace?” The healer suggests.

“And taunt me with books I am not allowed to read?”

“Can you read?” Sanaste asks and she scowls at them.

“And write. I was thirty when we ran, it’s not like I grew up there.” It’s not like she’s some wild animal, she knows how to read and write and do all the things these people do. 

“The library is beautiful, Miriel, you can enjoy it without having to read,” the healer says and frowns at Sanaste.

“Are assumptions not dangerous in your line of work? Had you held onto such an assumption that she could not read…would you read confidential material in front of her? Write them?”

Sanaste turns bright red and looks at their shoes, “Of-of course not.”

“Food for thought, now excuse me, if my ears tell me correctly, some fool grabbed a sword by the blade. Miriel, if you need anything, feel light headed, come back and ask for Hamiris – me.” Hamiris smiles and rises from her spot to go tend to a profusely bleeding man swearing his injury was not his fault.

Miriel turns to Sanaste and they help her out of her cot. She sways for a moment but the world doesn’t spin and she straightens out her back, sighing in relief as the vertebrae pop.

“I think I first want to visit the bath,” she says before walking over to the pools. Sanaste follows her and she turns, frowning.

“I can bathe myself.”

“Spymaster told me to keep an eye on you,” they reply and she lets out a long breath. Fine. She walks into the bathing room and picks out her soaps and vials before consulting with the assistant there on which pool does what. After a moment, she decides on a pink hued pool enchanted for relieving muscle aches and tensions.

It is…the most wondrous bath she’s ever had. She indulges in the water, sinking down past her shoulders to revel in the relief. The water is apparently enchanted to gently press against her body in swirling motions to slowly ease tension. After ten long minutes, she sits up and begins the slow process of washing herself clean of all the oils that have built up on her skin.

“Taking your time, eh?” Sanaste jokes and she rolls her eyes.

“I was unconscious for ten days, my body hasn’t moved in _ten days_. Before it was unheard of for it to not move for ten _hours_. I am so stiff and oily.” She sinks beneath the surface of the pink water and hums in delight at the full body effect.

“Are there any other robes? That one is old and I’d rather wear something clean,” she asks the assistant at the front of the room. He sighs and searches through another cabinet, procuring a long burgundy robe. She finishes washing herself and reaches for the towel, wrapping it around herself being she goes and retrieves the new robe.

“You are covered in scars, how –

“Most of them are really just dramatic scratches. I learned to fight, fell from trees, ran into trees, and once I was on the wrong end of a deer’s antlers.” She shakes out her hair and dresses quickly. The robe is much longer than the brown one, trailing behind her as it sags around her shoulders.

“Are people generally taller in Mana’din’s territory? All of your robes feel exceptionally large,” she comments as she tries to tie the waist of the robe higher up where her waist actually is.

“Not particularly, Mana’din herself is quite petite. It is supposed to be loose, it is the style right now.” Sanaste explains and she makes a face. ‘Loose’ is not exactly comfortable nor is it practical, there is entirely too much fabric – what if she has to defend herself?

“It’s supposed to come off the shoulders, like this,” Sanaste adjusts the neckline so that it’s less awkward plunging and more aligned so that it stretches from one end of her shoulder to the other. It also pulls the waist up to a better position. While the robe is still long and the opposite of what she’s used to, it will have to do.

She braids her wet hair back then leaves with Sanaste towards this apparently amazing library. They help her through the hallways. The walls are so close together and the ceiling is low and no matter how much the light the windows let in, she feels almost trapped. She has frontwards and backwards…potentially through the windows as an escape route.

Thankfully the library is not far and Sanaste is quick to thrust open the heavy doors to reveal –

“ _Shit_ ,” she whispers as she walks into the grandest room she has ever been in. It must be multiple levels high, with shelves lining all the way up to the ceiling. The other stories have walkways interrupting the shelves and some people mill above her, pulling books off shelves and walking away with them. Light streams in from the windows on the opposite wall from the door. The windows frame a gigantic fireplace that she feels poses a risk to the books. But there are wards to prevent that, she thinks.

“Er, yes. It’s really that impressive?” She guesses that someone who sees such impressive things every day becomes blind to how impressive it is. She can’t remember seeing so many books in one place before…perhaps when she lived at Andruil’s palace when she was younger, but it’s been a long time and all the memories she has of that place are obscured by the chaos of her death.

It’s like a forest of books and she wants to read them _all_. She strides to one of the shelves and pulls out a book, reading its title

_“Evening of Eternity_ – interesting. Is this book good?” She asks Sanaste and they stall.

“I’m not sure.”

“Hmm.” She pulls out another one.

“ _Mistress of Mine_.”

“We appear to be in the romance section,” Sanaste says, joining her by the bookcase to inspect their own books titles.

“What other sections are there?” She asks and they shrug.

“There’s adventure, suspense, thriller, mystery, I am pretty sure there are at least a few high fantasy books in here – there’s a series about a winged people that is very popular right now. Lots of political intrigue.”

“It sounds fascinating! They all have wings?”

“Yes. It’s about a niece to the empress suddenly becoming empress herself after brutal assassinations.”

“Oh that sounds so interesting. Damn this concussion, I can’t read.” She turns to them and widens her eyes.

They sigh and head over to another bookcase to pull out a hefty looking book.

“I’ll read the first chapter aloud and then I’m done.”

They curl up in a nook of the library, and Sanaste keeps their voice low so to not draw attention. They are not the most skilled orator but they are decent enough that she asks for them to just read _one more_ chapter.

“I said one!”

“But it’s so good! Please, and just think, you’re keeping me here instead of me escaping you and running wild.” She grins up at them and bats her eyelashes. They narrow their eyes for a moment before sighing and turning their attention back to the book. They grumble about being a glorified babysitter or something then set to reading the next chapter.

Luckily for them, she needs to move by the end of it. It is very good and she wants to read more – but later, right now she is inclined to move.

“Is there anywhere else?” She asks and they pause before shaking their head.

“No, everywhere else is off limits. At least until they decide if you’re safe…or not. They could decide to lock you up still.”

“That’s a nice thought.” Their look tells her they don’t appreciate her sarcasm but she shrugs it off and starts to walk around the library. She snares a ladder and climbs up it to the second story. Sanaste makes a noise of disapproval but she’s just on the second floor – what else is the ladder for other than climbing?

There are…so many books. How does one even begin to choose what they are going to read? They had a grand total of three books in the woods, and she read each beyond counting. She had started coming up with her own little stories, not particularly good, but entertaining in the interim. Always in the interim. Uthbora was much better at writing the stories. She’d speak them around the fires, and they’d all sit enraptured.

She wonders if these books are just as good or if they’re better.

“It is incredibly frustrating, Sanaste, to have all these books here but unable to read them. And it’s not because I can’t read, but because a healer says _no_.”

“You struggle with being told ‘no’?” They ask and she rolls her eyes.

“Just when it comes to my safety, I know my limits and what I can do. If someone said no to me poking them, for example, that would be easy to follow. But following someone else’s guidance when it’s me?” She clicks her tongue as she pulls out a particularly colorfully bound book.

“It’s awful,” she murmurs, opening to the first page of the book. They’re in the mystery section and this particular book seems to be about a murder the guards who investigate it. She hums then puts it back.

“I can feel it though, the exhaustion just behind my eyes as I try to read. There is a strain. So since I am unable to read, I want to move.”

Sanaste sighs and explains once again that she is currently only permitted this library, the hallway, and the healing annex. Her expression sours and they offer to read more of the story to her. She itches to move but there is literally nothing else to do.

So they read to her until it is time for her to return to the annex for her supper. It is a plain meal consisting of bread, steamed vegetables, and a small selection of cured meats. Sanaste is given their own plate of food and they eat in companionable silence.

After dinner is another round of healing that lasts for several hours. The healers bustle about her, making her drink foul potions, asking her questions about her well-being and if she is complying with their rules of recovery. She tries to tell them all multiple times that she is fine, but they ignore her words and focus on slowly weaving healing magic into her head. It is deeply relaxing, at least, and she nearly falls into a trance as they work.

By the time they are finished, the sun has set, and Sanaste looks to be flagging just a bit. They lean against the wall, head back and eyes closed. She should sleep, she knows, but there is a restlessness that lingers.

The others in the room are beginning to turn in for the night, making her feel guilty for her inability to do the same. She drags a hand down face and contemplates asking for something that will make her sleep when the door opens. Curious, Miriel sits up and almost grins.

He strides over to her, dressed in dark hues that make him almost blend in with the darkness of the stone walls.

“My lord,” she inclines her head and the air spikes with both annoyance and happiness.

“I was kept in _meetings_ all day, and have only now gotten free,” he bemoans.

“Have you eaten? I’m sure someone can get you food if you’re hungry –

“I ate. I had been meaning to see you after you woke up but everything got pushed back because of the meetings.”

Her brow furrows but her lips quirk up, “You wanted to see me? Do you wish to hear more about the woods? As important to me they are, they are still just woods.”

He pauses for a moment, and she tries to read him through the mask. The porcelain shields everything, though, and it leaves her simultaneously frustrated and curious.

“Not precisely. But there is something I would like to show you, that is if you’re up for it,” he says and she sits up, grinning.

“Oh I’m up for it, concussion be damned,” she says, eager to move around.

Sanaste coughs behind her and she winces. Right, her guard.

“My lord, I am not sure if she has been cleared to go wherever you are planning,” they say diplomatically. It’s bold of them, to defy him like this.

“I am clearing her right now. You…can just stay here, rest a bit, I’m sure she has put you through your paces today.” His tone is playful and light and Miriel plays along. She plays at offense, leaning back, bringing her hand to her chest, but smiling.

Sanaste averts their eyes, unsure of what they should do.

“I am perfectly agreeable when I want to be, I’ll have you know,” she says. Darevas chuckles and returns his gaze to her.

“It’s the when you want to be that gets you in trouble.”

“You make it sound like I’m incorrigible.”

Sanaste snorts, “That’s because you are.”

Darevas gestures to them, “See? You’re outvoted. You’re a troublemaker.”

“I’m not the one who keeps coming back, though, so what does that make you?” She shoots back before thinking properly. Her eyes widen and she realizes what she said could be taken poorly. She bows her head but there’s retaliation. Darevas hums for a moment before replying.

“Curious. Intrigued. I’ve met so few troublemakers like yourself,” there is a hint of something in his voice that she can’t quite place but it makes her blush. Sanaste sighs and mutters about Uthvir is going to kill them before retreating back to their chair. Darevas stands and extends his hand out to Miriel.

“Come! Our time is limited!” He exclaims. She takes his hand then they are off. He takes back into the hallway and they travel down the length of it, passing several guards and rooms. She averts her eyes from the guards at first but they seem unconcerned to see Darevas leading her through the palace. Has he done this before?

He rounds a corner and she has to focus on her footing and keeping up.

“Where are we going?” She whispers.

“You’ll see!”

A surprise then. As a rule, Miriel isn’t too fond of surprises – there’s too much room for them to be bad. But none of her little internal alarms go off at the prospect of Darevas surprising her…so either she is blindsided by him or nothing bad is going to happen.

Both, potentially.

He leads her down a small flight of stairs and then around a bend. They stop just outside of a pair of glass doors, hints of light from the other side spill through the glass and she angles to see more clearly.

“Are you ready?” He asks, giddy.

“Ready for what? I am unprepared for anything hostile, but something pleasant – yes,” she answers and she swears he rolls his eyes even if she can’t tell behind the mask.

“To fight a dragon, obviously.” He turns and opens the door and guides her into the space. Her breath catches as she realizes what it is. It’s an enclosed garden of sorts. Full of night blooming flowers and bioluminescent plants. There are even a few glowing lizards she sees scurrying from bush to bush. There is an odd-looking tree in the center of the garden, dark heavy fruit hanging from its branches.

There is a small spring burbling up just beyond the tree and several small birds flit around it. Little lights line the walkway though the garden, guiding her slow walk through.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, reaching out to touch the black night tree. Its bark is waxy but jagged, creating a smooth but sharp surface.

“I’m glad you like it.” He reaches up and plucks a fruit from the tree. He shows her how to open it, revealing a squishy dark purple interior.

“Is it edible?”

“It is, not to my tastes, entirely too tart.”

She reaches into the fruit and pulls out a section. It’s not entirely dissimilar from an orange, though she’d say it’s closer to a grapefruit and a coconut in terms of shape and texture. She takes a bite. Darevas is right, it is exceptionally tart, but not unpleasantly so.

“It would go well inside of a pastry, or the juices could be used to make a beverage. Where is this tree from?” she asks, continuing to nibble on the pieces. It could pair with a pomegranate, she thinks, and perhaps strawberries to sweeten it a bit.

“After my sister took over for my uncle, there were chaotic energies swirling around in parts of the territory. Over time, it mutated some of the trees and this type was the longest living. Little ecosystems began to form around it. It’s called a Night Tree. These are night fruits.”

She looks back up at the tree, at its odd skin and the imperfect shapes the night fruits make. It is not a pretty tree, but it is strong, supporting the weight of several creatures lingering in its branches. An armored serpent slithers across a branch and turns to look at her, its four eyes reflecting the light. She has never heard of any of the animals she sees in the garden and she wonders if they are all results of these mutations.

“This is amazing, thank you,” she whispers and he chuckles.

“Ah, the night fruit is also being considered as a new dye source because of the tendency to stain things purple,” he says and she pauses before realizing –

“My lord, did you stain my mouth purple?”

He tries to keep himself from laughing but his shaking shoulders tell a different story.

“Darevas!” She playfully shouts before hopping over to the pond to wash her mouth out. There are glowing fish in the water, all with a third eye on top of their heads. They swim away when they spy her, retreating into the rocks. She rinses her mouth out as much as she can, laughter finally beginning to bubble up from Darevas.

“Yes, my lord, laugh at my expense,” she teases.

“Aww, you’re cute with a purple mouth, though.”

“Anything else you’re not telling me? Like if it’s poisonous?” She asks and the laughter stops.

“I would not poison you,” he says suddenly completely serious. She looks up from the pond, brows drawn.

“I apologize if I insulted, my lord. It was callous of me.” For a moment she was in the woods again, Varas having pulled one over her for the millionth time. And there was that one time where he _did_ get her to nibble on something poisonous, but that had not been intentional.

Darevas walks over to her and she is struck once more about how unsettling his mask is.

“Thank you. Would you care to see the rest of the garden?” He extends a hand to her again and she takes it. The path is surprisingly long and winding, and there are so many types of plants she did not know.

“Serendipity would love this,” she murmurs, eyeing a fern that appears to have color changing fronds.

“Someone you lived with?”

“A botanist, or at least he was a botanist in training when he ran. One of Andruil’s crueler hunters favored him, unfortunately, so he ran.”

Darevas nods, “I have heard some of the rumors surrounding my aunt before she died. They are hard to hear sometimes.”

“It was not all bad, my lord. But yes, it was a trying time to be a follower of hers. My parents tried to keep me from it, but there was only so much they could do. And Serendipity was ironically unfortunate enough to not have anyone keep him from the clutches of a cruel person. My mother is fond of saying that when leaders are cruel, it gives their followers license to be cruel themselves. It’s normalized.”

Darevas stops and stares at her for a moment, “Are you trying to influence me, Miriel?”

“Any influence is of your conscious, my lord, I do not mean anything by it.” She bows her head and almost regrets her words. Almost. The truth of the matter is that Andruil _was_ cruel, and her actions led to her death and the subsequent chaos. It will be difficult enough transferring the power over to Darevas and Felasel, she is uninterested in more chaos, more death for her people.

But she supposes they’re their people as well, and it is up to them to decide what to do with them.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he says after a long moment and some tension eases from her, but she does not pick her head up. That is, until a gloved finger moves under her chin and guides her gaze up to his mask.

“There is no need to fear, I do not wish to harm you.”

She bites her tongue from saying that wish and will are two different things. She has pushed her luck enough for one night. Instead she studies his mask, the slits over his eyes and mouth and wonders what he looks like.

“Why do you wear the mask?” She asks. His hand drops and they resume walking.

“Tradition mostly. My father first wore because his form can be unsettling for some. My sister wore it.” He shrugs, “It just seemed right to wear it.”

“And is your form unsettling as well?” She asks.

“Ah, you want to see under the mask do you?” He teases and she blushes.

“And if I am curious?” She asks back. Several glowing insects buzz around his head, creating odd shapes along his mask. It’s a bit ironic that the Lord Dirthamen wears his mask to conceal his unsettling appearance but the masks themselves are unsettling in their own way.

Darevas reaches up and pulls his hood down, revealing another head cover to secure the mask to. His hands begin to undo the fastenings for the mask.

“If you do not feel comfortable, I don’t mean to impose or –

“Don’t worry,” he says, unfastening the last strap and pulling the mask away.

He looks…normal. Handsome, really. His eyes are a bright blue, framed by long dark lashes and equally dark eyebrows. His mouth is wide, like he should always be smiling.

She blinks and almost doesn’t believe that this is what he looks like.

“Surprised?”

“I…don’t know. You are much more handsome than I was expecting.”

He grins and there is such pure mirth in his face that has her breath catching for a moment, “You find me handsome?”

She turns from him, blushing, “And water is wet, my lord.”

“Oh no, no, no. I’m Darevas without the mask, none of that ‘my lord’ business.”

“A mask makes the lord, then?”

He chuckles, glancing down at his mask.

“It helps to keep some part of myself separate.”

That makes sense. She’d hate to think he is stuck in that mask all the time, save for sleeping or eating. But after a moment he secure the mask into place and pulls his hood back up.

They walk back through the garden, and she stands slightly closer to him than before. It helps to know his face, to know that he really is just a person behind that mask. Though she fears that it will simply make her bolder in her teasing and assertions.

He leads her back to the healer’s and she stops to smile at him.

“Thank you for that, it was very kind. There is so little I can do at the moment and I have been confined to such a limited space.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. There is something I would like to show you in the morning, if you would like. If not…I could have it delivered.” There is a hesitance to his voice that is endearing, and she wonders if that mask also provides him a crutch of sorts to hide his face in such situations. Does he blush? Or feel the need to look away?

“No need to deliver, I will go with you. The healers like to do morning healing sessions, however, so I am unsure of how early I can go.”

“That is not an issue, not to worry. Good night, I will see you in the morning,” he opens the door to the healer’s and she waves her goodbye. The door shuts and she returns to her cot, eager for morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darevas and Felasel belong to SeleneLavellan
> 
> Uthvir belongs to Feynite
> 
> Faunalyn belongs to circadian_rythm

She wakes to find Sanaste and Hamiris fussing over her. They even draw blood from her to make sure it’s healthy. They flash magic at her eyes and start to run healing magic over her body, concentrating it on her head. They let her nibble on a simple breakfast while they worked, at least. And it doesn’t take as long as the night routine. Soon enough, she is allowed to stand up and get ready for the day.

By the time Miriel has finished fluffing out her hair, Darevas has arrived. He’s wearing a much more athletic outfit, with actual breeches, and a short tunic with leather bracers and boots.

“This is different,” she says, eyes taking in his more accentuated form. She can practically see the grin behind his mask.

“Do you like it?”

She arches her brow and shrugs, “Changes in scenery can be pleasant.” But she bites her lip and smiles. He steps closer and offers his arm.

“Are you still up for the day?” He asks softly and she nods, tentatively taking his arm.

“Unless it involves fighting that dragon you mentioned.”

“It has yet to be vanquished! Surely a mighty huntress such as yourself can fell a beast.” He guides her out of the annex but she hears Sanaste following not so far behind.

“Alas, my armor and weapons have been confiscated, no dragon slaying for me.”

“Not to mention the concussion,” Sanaste grumbles from behind her.

“Your armor and weapons were in terrible disrepair, you do know this? I wanted to have your armor cleaned for you, as an apology for your injuries but the entire thing fell apart.”

They enter a different part of the palace, more open and less ornate and from the scuff marks on the floor, it’s a high traffic area.

“Perhaps your people cleaned it incorrectly. It takes a gentle touch.”

“Regardless, it was flimsy and unacceptable.”

“Are you determining what is acceptable for me now?” She says, making sure to keep her tone light. Sanaste inhales sharply but Darevas seems unbothered.

“I want my followers to have the best,” he replies and guides her into a large workshop. It is hot and smells of fire, leather, and metal. There is a loud clanging and several people in thick aprons and gloves, some with odd looking face-masks that resemble helmets.

Darevas takes her to an end of the smithy and she inhales sharply as he gestures towards a mannequin.

“We are leaving for the woods in a few days, and I find it imperative to make sure you are armored. It’s simplistic but it should do the job.” He walks around the stand, inspecting it as she walks to the front of it, in awe. The leather is thick and tough, and it hums with a basic enchantment – for barrier generation? She is unsure, she’s never had anything enchanted before.

There are so many pieces to it – the chest, the shoulders, arms, and several pieces for the legs. They all lock into each other somehow to give full body coverage and a cohesive look.

“This is for me?” She asks in a small voice.

“Yes, I know it is simplistic –

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, following him around the stand. Her hands run over the leather, over the ridges and planes. Darevas pauses and turns to her.

“I’m glad you like it. The armorer needs you to try it on though, that is why I brought you here. They need to make sure it fits properly,” he explains but the words seem almost distant in her disbelief. An assistant takes the armor of the stand and ushers Miriel into a corner concealed by a changing screen. The number of pieces of armor is amazing, and it reminds her of when she was just barely an adult.

Her mother had commissioned armor for her – a beautiful set with small embellishments. She had worn it for four years before it was starting to wear in certain places. She saved up for her own armor and it had only been finished for a month before Anduil died. She wore that until it fell apart, and then it was just using animal pelts and furs to the best of their abilities.

But this set was beautiful, and firm, with undeniable quality. The assistant called out numbers and phrases that meant something to the craftsmen, but nothing to Miriel. They tugged on straps and strings to figure out the best fit.

Her waist is higher than they had anticipated, they’ll have to modify two of the larger pieces. But it’s still beautiful, embosses at the cuffs and collar. Once completely secured into the armor, she steps out from around the screen.

She hears Darevas’s sharp intake of breath but the mask offers no other insights to how he sees her.

“It’s amazing,” she says, not waiting for him. She holds her hands out and examines the fit on her. It is a bit strange to be so secure in armor again, it almost feels restrictive.

“It certainly looks amazing,” he says, stepping forward. She raises her hands up and moves around to see what flexibility she can achieve. There is more resistance than what she is used to, but it isn’t unreasonable. Once the leather is broken in, she is sure it will be even more suitable for her. The skirt is a bit long for her tastes, but it can be fixed. The truly odd parts are the boots – they completely encase her feet, shins, and calves, all the way up to her knees.

“I feel very encased.”

“Protected, I hope. I’d rather you not add to all those scars the healers gossip about,” Darevas says.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I am quite alright with all those scars. Each one is a check mark on ‘I survived this’. Broken collarbone, fall from a tree, run _into_ a tree, a misfired arrow into my arm, angry deer – each one a testament to my survival. I’m sorry, does that offend?”

Darevas shakes his head, “No, but I would still like it if you were not injured so that you scar.” She continues to stretch, testing the movement. She checks under the boots to see if she will be able to climb in them. There are striations in the leather, but she suspects she may need to take them off if she need to really climb.

“Thank you, my Lord, this is…entirely too generous.”

He seems to preen under the thanks, “I’m glad you like it. It’s yours after the modifications will be made.”

She’s guided back behind the screen where she changes back into her robe. She comes back out and Darevas offers his arm again.

“Not done?”

“Nope!”

She chuckles at his enthusiasm and lets him guide her to the adjacent smithy, this one stocked with weapons from floor to ceiling. Ah, he means to restock her on everything.

“My lord, this is entirely too much,” she tells him but he shakes his head.

“It is the least I can do.”

“But after all your other kindnesses… there is no way I can repay you,” she says as he walks her to the far side and gestures to a rack of bows.

“Do not worry about that, these are necessary things.”

“It would be far easier to simply let me guide you through the woods in a worn robe. But instead you’ve used all these valuable resources.”

He picks up one of the shorter long bows, a dark wood with careful carvings around the grip. He hands it to her and she stares at it, disbelieving.

“Ease is not always best. You do not have to accept if you do not want it, however. You also do not need to think of it as a gift, if that helps.” He does not sound happy about that, but he is earnest enough that it comes across more as harmless disappointment rather than actual disapproval. She takes the bow from his hand, feeling the weight.

“I have no way to reciprocate, my lord,” she says softly, feeling herself blush.

“Even if I was high ranking with access to resources, what exactly do you give someone who has everything?” She does not like the idea of being bought in any way, but with these gifts and the garden from the night before, the interest in her….

_Fool’s gold only fools those who do not look further,_ her mother had said time to time. She glances up to Darevas and hopes that he is not fool’s gold, but she can’t risk it. She can’t just let herself hope for the best when he has all the power. She’ll accept these gifts, but anything else…she can’t toe that line, not while her people are depending on her.

“Whatever you can, if it comes from you that is enough. But you do not have to worry about that, not for essentials. I want to keep my people safe,” he explains and it helps. After last night, everything feels more meaningful. There is a weight to his actions and she finds herself lingering on, analyzing even his slightest movements.

“Thank you, my lord. Could I try the bow in a safer area, please?” She asks and he nods, grabbing a bow for himself and guiding her to the practice field outside. The field is large with people scattered about practicing various forms of combat. There are specific areas dedicated to hand-to-hand, archery, swords of varying lengths, spears – almost anything involving combat. She heads toward the archery field though and stakes her spot across from a target. There are dulled arrows in place, waiting, and she takes no time in notching on then letting it loose to land a bull’s eye.

She crouches down and does it again.

Darevas whistles behind her and she smiles, then lets loose another arrow, just for good measure.

“You are…very good at that,” he compliments and she bows her head in thanks.

“Thank you, necessity and lots and lots of practice have honed the ability,” she explains as she walks over to the target and pulls out the arrows. An arrow lands on the adjacent target, far enough away that it isn’t concerning. When she looks back, Darevas has a bow in his hand and is relaxing from a stiff pose.

“Not as much practice but –

“Your form is atrocious,” she says without thinking, walking up to him. She has him pick it back up, then places her hands on his arms and uses her body to angle his. His height makes it a bit awkward, but she manages to get him positioned, but still he’s stiff.

“Relax, breathe with it, not everyone’s form is going to be the same because of how our bodies work. The bow is an extension of yourself, feel its weight and know it as your own.” She hands him an arrow and adjusts his elbows again.

“Now, aim and fire.”

He does as she says and it lands within the inner ring of the target.

“Good!” She drops her hands from him and smiles until she realizes her gross overstep.

“Oh, I…am so sorry, I had no place to –

He sets his bow to the side and shakes his head quickly, “No, no, that was good. Many of my instructors tend to tiptoe around me about this, and they have not been this hands on since I was much younger, thank you.”

She blinks at his mask, disbelieving, “I…constantly overstep with you.” Her voice is a whisper and her body is tense, ready for whatever retaliation he has. But he just shrugs.

“I told you, it’s refreshing, and this helped.” He picks the bow back up after a moment and aims again.

“Like this?” He asks softly and she purses her lips. He’s purposefully keeping himself tense, but he seems sincere in his assertions that she is not overstepping.

Miriel takes a step forward and gently corrects him again.

“Your hips anchor you, let go with your breath for now,” she murmurs, holding his hips while he fires again. The arrow hits closer to the center this time and she smiles once more, smaller and more conservative this time, though.

“You are an excellent teacher,” he lauds, making her blush.

“Thank you, my lord.” She inclines her head and he sighs. They end up working on his form with the bow and her demonstrating some more complex forms, including crouching and running. After a couple of hours, she’s sweating, her head is a bit fuzzy, but most importantly - she is ravenous.

“The kitchens should have lunches prepared by now, if you would care to accompany me,” he offers and she accepts readily. Food sounds like the best thing right now, along with water.

The kitchens are nearly full of bustling people, cooking and preparing meals that are being sent out all over the palace. Miriel stands close to a wall and lets Darevas navigate it all while she tries not to be suddenly overwhelmed by the number of people in such a small space. The air is thick and hot and it constricts her throat to an alarming degree. She is about to slip outside when Darevas joins her and takes her arm, guiding her into the large dining hall. There are a lot of people, but a lot of space as well, allowing her to breathe.

Two servants pull out chairs for Darevas and Miriel. She almost protests it, but bites her tongue. She’s uninterested in further pushing her luck at this point. More servants arrive with their food – rich smelling bread filled with a steaming stew that makes her mouth water. It’s placed in front of them and she barely manages to thank them before diving in. The stew scalds her mouth but oh, it’s so good. Rich and satisfying in no way the food they had been feeding her at the annex has been.

She is not graceful and manners at this point are lost on her. She tears off pieces of the bread and spoons up pieces of the stew into her mouth, making happy little noises at all the flavors.

Her ears twitch and the feeling of eyes on her makes her look up. Darevas has at some point removed his mask to eat and is staring at her, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. She swallows the food in her mouth and smiles.

“It’s delicious.”

He blinks then smiles himself, “I’m glad.” He resumes eating and the air eases. The pressure that kept lingering over them feels to have abated somewhat and it allows her to eat with just as much gusto as before. She does take care to not make a mess, she’s not completely without care.

As soon as he finishes eating, Darevas puts his mask back on. It’s a shame, she thinks, that he has this tradition of hiding his face. It’s a good face, princely and handsome. But it does make his sharing it with her that much more meaningful. And yet the meaningfulness is worrying in its own right. She feels like a cornered hare but she is unsure if it is from another curious hare or a hungry snake.

Thankfully, Darevas is pulled away by his brother claiming they have things to attend to and she is escorted back to the annex by a taciturn guard. Darevas promises he’ll see her soon, but she’s not entirely sure how she feels about that. She appreciates the generous gifts and the time away from the annex, and he has been exceedingly kind.

But there is this itch at the back of her mind, something that is trying to tell her _something_ about the whole situation. Something that she knew a hundred years ago but has since gotten lost in the time spent away from society.

“Sanaste,” she asks once back at the annex.

“Hmm?” They hum, looking exceedingly bored.

“Did you volunteer to watch me or was it given to you?”

“A bit of column A, a bit of column B. I’m interested in healing magic concerning the head, so whenever concussion cases come up, I try to worm my way in. Observing you is…the less interesting part of my research. Though I am glad you appear to be making a full recovery.” They back pedal quickly but she doesn’t mind. She can’t really do anything, observing her must be boring.

“I’m mostly making sure you don’t try to do something that will reinjure you. I came close to stopping you this morning, but the Lord…well, there is not much I can do there,” they laugh self-consciously and she frowns.

“If you want to speak up, please do, he’d understand,” she tells them, walking to her cot.

They consider her for a moment, a strange pensive look on their face, “I will keep that in mind. Now I need to examine you again, lie down.”

She sighs but does as they say as they set to examining her. The hum as they prod at her, then whisper a few healing spells at her head. They pour her a glass of water and instruct her to drink it to stave off dehydration.

“I want you drinking more water,” they sigh and she nods as she gulps down the water.

“At least I actually got to eat a full meal and not just snacks, I haven’t felt this satisfied with a meal in ages.”

Sanaste frowns but they don’t say anything, just pour her more water. She takes the glass and sips at it just as a group of lightly armored people enter the room. They approach Miriel and Sanaste with grim looks.

“Miriel, you’re needed, follow us.” Though they don’t really mean follow when one of the bigger folks practically hauls her up by her arm.

“Ow,” she protests, jerking her body away.

“Don’t rattle her, we’ve worked hard on her healing,” Sanaste sighs. Miriel raises her chin but follows the group, two of them following her. The weight of their eyes makes her skin crawl but she keeps still and calm, keeping the same pace.

She is guided to a room by where she was initially held. She shivers and tries not to recount the feeling of being strung up. Her wrists hurt and she feels that much more cowed.

“I told you everything –

“Not everything,” a familiar voice says. They’re standing by a different room, arms crossed over their chest, spikes somehow aligned all pointing outward.

“If you think you are going to get anything else out of torture I assure you simply asking will produce the same result, I have nothing to hide.”

“We are simply asking, come in.” She is guided into the room that is dominated by a large table covered with a map.

“We were able to map out where you were found, now we need you to tell us the directions of where your camp is and where this cave your mother spoke of is,” they tell her. A chill runs down her back.

“Not if you will not let me accompany you.”

“You are still going to lead us, but we need to know the areas of which you speak as a precaution,” they assure her. She frowns but sits down.

“Very well, but I’m not good with maps, everything I know is in my head.”

“That’s fine, close your eyes, describe where you’d go if you had not been found,” they urge and she sighs but does as they say. She closes her eyes and pictures the woods.

“The lords were moving north, which would have lead them close to where the camp is, but not exactly. They would have seen signs though.”

“When would they see the signs?”

“If they were on foot…an hour, perhaps two if they weren’t good. The camp was more north _east_ than that…”

She can see the camp, the trees acting as supports for their tents and buildings, fires burning for pottery making and cooking. Serendipity would be tending his herb garden, Uthbora asking if she can have more elfroot- and they’d argue about the medicinal properties of it. It’s not a secret that she favored it for smoking and stress relief. Several of the others also partook in it, but Serendipity hated it. He hates anything that clouds his mind, says that it makes him vulnerable.

“That’s all very interesting, but if you could focus on the locations, that is our focus,” they urge. Her brows furrow, she said all of that aloud? Odd.

“Right, of course, I apologize. Um. The cave was farther north and west of the camp. There’s…a drop, almost like someone cut out a hillside, then a small waterfall – the cave is in a sinkhole, steam sometimes comes up from it.” She hears the scratch of quill against the map and parchment.

“You did not mention the sinkhole before,” Uthvir says and she shrugs.

“Because the cave is the important part of it. It is more like the entry to the cave. Sorry, I never go over there, the last time I did my mother had a fit.”

“When was that?”

“…Thirty years ago, ish. Before we sent out Clarity.”

More note taking sounds then silence. She opens her eyes to see Uthvir looking at a book and the map both, deciphering…something, she guesses.

“What do you think is out there anyways?”

“That is confidential information,” they answer. She bites her tongue, wanting to press the issue. But it wouldn’t be productive, it’d only make things worse. Still, the idea that there is some lurking thing in her woods, near her people, sits uneasily in her, even more so since here is someone who has an idea of what that thing is and they won’t tell her.

So she frowns and lets her emotions out just a bit to make her displeasure known.

“Now you are being petulant.” But there is a wryness to their tone, almost like when her mother is both displeased and proud of her.

“I apologize, the woods have dulled my manners. I am sure the Lord Darevas can tell you all about it,” she quips. They look at her from the corner of their eye before returning to the map.

“What else can you tell me about the area?” They ask.

The rest of the day is spent with her telling them everything she can about the woods. Apparently being well enough to shoot arrows means that they felt she is well enough to question her ceaselessly about everything. The wildlife, the structures, their hunting patterns – everything. By the end of it, her head hurts and she simply wants to sleep, despite the restlessness in her legs.

When Sanaste takes her back to the annex, she is quick to eat and even quicker to turn in for the night.

The next few days are spent in intensive healing and spreading information from Uthvir to everyone accompanying them. Both Darevas and Felasel are apparently invested in the investigation, much to Uthvir’s displeasure. Faunalyn also seems to disapprove, but the young lords insist that since it is to be their land, they should be responsible for bringing Miriel’s people back into the fold and defending the land from anything sinister. There are…debates. But the lords are stubborn and insist. Most of the push comes from Darevas, who seems eager to see whatever is causing trouble in the woods vanquished.

Felasel is quieter, but there is an edge to him that is disquieting. He leans more curious about the threat than wanting to see it ended, and he constantly side eyes Miriel as if she is still to be considered a criminal.

She holds her tongue. She doesn’t need to add fuel to a fire.

Four days later and she is cleared as completely healed by the annex. Sanaste wants to hold it off but the lords and Uthvir will not hear them over most of the healers. Darevas takes her back to the smithy to see how her armor fits – finding the modifications to be perfect.

The day after and she is taken to the stables where everyone else already is.

“Miriel! So glad you could join us,” Darevas says cheerfully. He takes her hand and lifts it up to a brown hart, letting the beast sniff her.

“This is Elma,” he introduces and Miriel smiles.

“Hello, Elma.” She pets the pretty hart and is thanked with what she assumes are happy noises. Elma nuzzles Miriel’s hand and she giggles, moving around the beast until she comes to her back and saddle. Darevas helps her up and she reorients herself. She hasn’t ridden a hart in a very long time, but she remembers this feeling of being high up, seeing things from an angle she is not used to.

Uthvir and their hart suddenly appear at the front of the stable, a long cloak hanging from their shoulders making them almost appear regal. She looks around and sees Sanaste and a contingent of Darevas’s and Felasel’s guards all saddling up in addition to a few of Mana’din’s people. Faunalyn is also here, wearing a partial mask over her mouth. Her cat eyes gleam with excitement that makes Miriel think of her father.

Once everyone is saddled and the supplies have been tied to the mounts, they set out to the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for blood and vomit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darevas and Felasel belongs to SeleneLavellan
> 
> Faunalyn belongs to circadian_rythm
> 
> Uthvir belongs to Feynite

It’s interesting to see the difference between her and those who are not accustomed to the woods. Even in parts she does not recognize feel more like home than the walls of the palace. Traveling through Eluvians and the Crossroads had been odd, vaguely reminiscent of older times. Her skin feels like it’s been covered in a dew while the tiny hairs on her neck and arms stand out.

But the woods! Oh the woods with their eerie bird calls, rustle of leaves, and the occasional roar of a beast declaring that this here is _its_ territory and the rest of the wood ought to know. The unaccustomed lords and soldiers place their hands on their swords at the roars, not entirely realizing just how far away the beast is.

“It’s far off, no need to get concerned,” Miriel whispers to Darevas.

“And besides, it’s a territorial call – probably already eaten its fill on a large deer. It only means to make us know, not to harm.”

“It is an impressive sound,” Darevas replies and she chuckles.

“I hear dragons roar even more impressively than that.”

She can feel Felasel side eyeing her from his saddle, but she ignores him as easily as she ignores the roaring beast.

Darevas shrugs, “Dragons need not roar to tell everyone that this is their territory – everyone already knows.”

“Do they? What if the dragon is still growing?”

“Then it hasn’t yet established a true territory yet. Dragons only claim territory when they need to, they’re intelligent creatures. A shame we see so few,” he continues. Miriel furrows her brow and looks up to see a juvenile winged serpent, it hisses at her then takes flight into the trees.

“And how does a dragon claim a territory?” She asks.

“It depends on the species. But generally, all dragons go through a marking period. Fire-breathers rake the ground then scorch it. Frost-breathers create large ice sculptures with their breath and claws. Creatures will live in these sculptures, like ice serpents. Lightning-breathers are interesting because they use their enchanting abilities to create a low level of static in the air to tell anyone entering their territory that they’re there. Poison-spitters have impressive scent glands all over their bodies. Their territories smell like flowers and sulfur. Water dragons are elusive, draconologists have never nailed down any single theory. I am fond of the idea that the river dragons like to create intricate ox-tails and riverways, even flow into cave networks to bring water to those ecosystems. They forge their territories from the very home they’re born in.” Darevas explains.

“You are forgetting the Cloud Runners, brother,” Felasel says in a level voice, “the only dragon species to not have a specified territory.”

Darevas nods and Miriel finds herself curious.

“And where did you learn all of this about dragons? From books?”

“Of course, even if we were foolish enough to try to hunt feral dragons in our youth, we would not learn their long-term habits like draconologists of the past have.” Darevas explains.

Miriel smiles and shifts forward in her saddle, “And I suppose a prince would taste the same as anyone to a dragon.” She teases.

“In that case, it’s a good thing we haven’t gone and hunted dragons. They’d go straight for me,” he plays, shivering for effect.

“Really? Are you that tempting to a dragon?”

“Oh I’m delicious, Felasel though is all stringy, he’d get caught in their teeth.”

“All the more protection then,” Felasel drawls and Miriel laughs.

“If anything, you could tell jokes and avoid death all together,” she plays along. Darevas laughs while Felasel remains silent.

For the rest of the first day, her and Darevas banter back and forth. She tells him about the woods, about the different animals making calls and skittering about. She points at wild growing elfroot and other plants that have various uses. Hunter she may be, but she learned from everyone in the woods.

She spends the night in a warded tent, unable to leave for fear fleeing apparently. She stares at the flaps of the tent, scowling. Darevas had assured everyone that the tent wasn’t needed but he had been vehemently outvoted by not only Uthvir and Faunalyn, but also by his brother.

_She can’t be trusted, Darevas,_ Felasel had whispered to the side. She almost said that if she wanted to do something stupid there many other opportunities to have done so, but she remained quiet, resigned to her tent prison. As far as prisons go, it’s not that bad, if she just forgets about the crippling pain she’ll suffer if she tries to leave.

In the morning, she spends ten minutes calling to be let out so she can relieve herself. One of the more taciturn guards opens the flap and she scurries out and into the woods. When she returns, it’s to glaring eyes.

“Is having to piss an offense now?” She sneers before moving to her things to don her armor.

“You become vulgar when upset,” Darevas says behind her.

“Is that a crime, my lord?”

“And snarky when defensive,” he continues. She straps on the chest piece and begins to pull on her breeches.

“Are you analyzing my behavior now?” She asks, still avoiding his gaze.

“Of course, you’re interesting. A keen-eyed huntress yourself must have made some observations about me.”

“You flatter yourself, my lord.”

“There’s that snark,” he continues, clearly not taking the hint or choosing otherwise to ignore it. _He can, he’s a lord_ , she reminds herself. She inclines her head in a submissive pose then reaches up and starts to pull her hair into a tight braid.

“And what if my observation is not to your liking?” She asks in a soft tone.

“I’ve liked everything else about you so far, I’m sure this will be fine,” he replies, nonchalant.

“There is a first for everything, my lord,” she continues. She feels his hands reach for hers and into her hair, continuing the braid. She freezes and lets him continue. Like a deer caught in a light.

“Please?” He asks and she takes a deep breath. Risk not speaking and upsetting or saying what she thinks and offending him?

Or she could lie. But that would be obvious since it’s about him.

She takes a breath, “You prefer to diffuse tense situations with humor and sweet words.” She pauses but he simply continues with the braid.

“Very astute. Would you like breakfast?” He offers. Just like that. He lets go of her hair and it feels a bit…odd. She feels like a mouse being toyed with by a cat but there’s nothing she can do about it. Darevas, as powerful as he is and how odd it is that he’s taken such an interest in her, is her best ally at the moment. There is a fear that should he no longer find her interesting that all her protection will fall away.

She needs to get to her people, now more than ever.

Breakfast is a quick affair, then they’re up and traveling again.

The part of the forest they’re traveling through now is older growth, full of trees that have weathered longer than even some of the older elves. Moss and vines hang down from the trees with critters of various sizes and diets scampering about. Miriel’s face becomes serious as she pays more attention to her surroundings.

Uthvir and Faunalyn both seem to more alert as well, watching the ground as Miriel guides them through a particularly thick patch of forest. The harts grumble about the maneuvering necessary over the ground, but then a silence falls over the party.

Miriel stands up in her saddle and sniffs at the air.

Hmm.

“So when the Lady Andruil unfortunately met her end, a few of the gifts from her wife got loose. One of them is a particularly smelly beast. It’s not particularly aggressive on its own, but it is large and extremely territorial.”

“I have a bad feeling,” one of the soldiers murmur.

“Good instincts because we’ve wandered into its territory. It’s moved for some reason, it was farther east before, that’s why I was leading you west and then up.” She tilts her head and listens for the beast. It is a large thing – with horns that curve from a spiny snout and a body that resembles the unholy conglomeration of a lion, boar, and rhinoceros.

Uthvir draws their hart next to hers, “Do you know where its den would lie?”

She shakes her head, “Not if it’s moved. It hasn’t moved in twenty years, but I do know how to avoid it otherwise. Make sure to check for claw marks that have a purple hue to them on trees. It often cuts itself when marking territory. If you do see it, don’t make eye contact but don’t turn your head or back on it. That’s asking it to kill you.” She tells the rest of the party.

Miriel scans the trees she can see ahead and chooses a pathway that doesn’t have the claw marks. She’ll lead them more east then, since the west appears to be otherwise occupied.

“Is it possible it bred?” Faunalyn asks and Miriel shrugs.

“We only ever saw one of the creatures, but I suppose…it could be possible that it reproduced in some fashion.” That’s unpleasant thought.

Leading them farther east leads them to the old territory, however, which has become rather swampy. The harts grumble at the water and soft earth, but it beats being in the heart of the territory of the beast.

They travel for an hour before she hears it. Uthvir’s ears twitch and Faunalyn turns her head, quick to pull out her bow.

A low rumbling noise that is barely audible, but she knows these woods and nothing makes that noise that is harmless. She takes out her bow and begins to scan the surroundings for it. A hiss breaks through and Miriel takes a deep breath.

If she was on her own, she’d shift and fly away, but she’s not and these poor bastards would be left to the beast and the swamp. She’d later be killed. Dammit.

Her hart is already tied to another for fear of her running, so Miriel jumps down from her hart into the low water. She can work better like this – tracking and fighting and hiding.

“You should get into a circle facing outward, with the princes given the best escape route. I’ll scout ahead, try to draw it off. Uthvir has an idea of where to go, just in case.” She whispers.

“That’s insanity!” Darevas is the only one to protest.

“Don’t worry, I know how to survive here, let me keep you alive,” she whispers, then disappears into the thicket. Her boots slosh through shallow murky water, making it difficult to hear, but she keeps low and small, listening carefully for the beast.

The thick canopy above blots out most of the light, creating darkness in the middle of the day. The brush itself is tall and hides her well as she stalks forward. Soft fronds shield her from sight, water sloshes around her boots and a humid air clings to her skin.

Another hiss. The beast must be defensive right now. Miriel stalks forward with her bow, arrow ready to be launched if need be. She doesn’t really want to kill the thing. It’s lived here rather peacefully and by itself for as long as her people have. It eats the deer, sits in its land, and otherwise doesn’t cause too much trouble unless threatened.

Her father encountered it once before, and he spoke of how it was easy to escape simply because it was uninterested in fighting an elf. He suggested that it too was scarred from living under Andruil and it simply wanted peace.

Miriel climbs up a tree and scans the area. It can’t get to her here – at least she doesn’t think it can. It’s got hooves on its hind legs, or so her father said, so climbing isn’t going to happen. She looks back towards where the rest of the group is and sees no signs of the beast.

But there goes another rumble. And a low growl, warbled and old sounding. Miriel shifts in her perch to look down to her right to see the beast crouching in the brush. It’s massive and yet it looks thinner than it should. One of its horns has broken off at some point and she thinks it’s missing an ear.

Poor thing. Its remaining ear is pressed flat against its head and it bares its teeth at her, tail whipping against the ground behind it. It scrunches up its body in a defensive position. It’s _scared_ more than anything.

Miriel sighs and stands up on her branch. She sucks in a breath and lets out the best screaming roar she can muster. She shakes the branch, bares her teeth, screams. The beast back up, hissing and growling in fear. But not enough to run.

She leaps from branch to branch, getting closer to it before shooting a couple of arrows down at its feet. She purposefully misses and it sends the message loud and clear. The beast turns and high tails it away. She pursues it for a few minutes before turning and heading back to the group. Strange looks great her when she gets back.

“What? I did what I had to in order to get it to leave us alone. Killing it served no purpose, it was scared and now it won’t get close,” she explains, hopping back up into her saddle.

“Mercy for beasts? Strange woman,” one of the guards murmur. She doesn’t particularly care. As far as she’s concerned, she has more in common with that beast than the guard in his shining armor and fancy saddle.

Darevas is watching her, expression hidden from her, and she can only hope it is something good.

“We need to move forward,” Uthvir says and she couldn’t agree more.

Miriel leads them out of the swampy area and into a dryer wood. They stop only once to eat and allow people to relieve themselves if need be. Miriel is nibbling on a piece of jerky when Darevas approaches her.

He’s quiet for a moment then takes off his mask and begins to eat his own jerky.

“Taking your meals with the strange woods woman who shows mercy to beasts, my lord?” She asks and he smiles.

“Those were some impressive noises – were they all yours?”

She chuckles, “Fancy the shouting, my lord?”

His grin is wicked and he leans down close to her ear, “Of a vastly different sort.” Her eyes widen and she leans back in horror. He couldn’t possibly mean –

His brows furrow in confusion at her face before they relax and he holds his hands up, “Pleasure! Shouting in pleasure, not –

“Oh!” She says and turns beet red, “that’s much better, I mean, that is – I need to crawl into hole now. E-excuse me, my lord.” She turns on her heel and speeds over to her hart where she buries her face into the animal’s thick hide.

That was horrifying, she can’t _believe_ she actually thought he meant – that he didn’t mean – and she actually –

_Shit._

“What was that about?” Faunalyn asks, making Miriel startle for a second.

“I um. Didn’t quite understand something the good and noble lord said and it got, well…hm.”

Faunalyn raises an eyebrow at Miriel and Miriel takes a deep breath, “He flited, but I didn’t catch the flirt and well,” she gestures and Faunalyn nods, smiling.

“Ah yes youth, I take it they didn’t teach you flirting in the woods.”

“Not with a lord, no,” Miriel murmurs and Faunalyn’s expression turns serious again.

“Tread carefully with that. What you don’t know can and will end badly for you,” she whispers so only that Miriel can hear. Miriel blinks and nods. Faunalyn moves off and Miriel peers around the hart to see Felasel and Darevas talking. Darevas’s mask is back in place, ruining any chance she has of knowing what he’s thinking now.

Tread lightly. She’s been _trying_ but there are these moments where he doesn’t feel like her lord, just Darevas. And while Uthbora would be gushing about how wonderful that is, how that’s always how it goes in her books about lords and peasants falling in love, Miriel knows better.

He could order her bound, whipped, harmed in any number of ways for insinuating he liked to torture people or anything else unflattering she may have insinuated over the last few days. No one would bat an eye and there would be nothing anyone could do.

She has to remember that at the end of the day, she is still just a strange woods woman to these people. To Darevas.

Miriel climbs back up on her hart and reorients herself. She’s here to help her people, that’s what she’s doing. Darevas is handsome and surprisingly kind but he isn’t the focus. She needs to remain focused.

They head north east, along a path that only Miriel recognizes. She sees the small notches in the branches, the scuffs at the bottoms of the trees, remnants of traps sprung a while ago but now empty. Concerning is the lack of fresh traps. They’re set almost daily in the hopes of finding something. Food’s been getting more and more scarce, requiring riskier hunting.

Maybe they caught a large deer?

They move up the hill to where the camp is, and it is _silent_. Dread fills Miriel’s belly as they round to the top…to find the camp empty. Her heart sinks and panic begins to enter her.

“Where…” she whispers, hopping quickly off her hart. She checks Varas’s hut, then Uthbora’s, Serendipity’s, her parents…

“What is the meaning of this?”

“She _lied_.”

“Miriel, what is exactly did you mean to accomplish?”

“Miriel!”

“Miriel!”

They shout for her but she doesn’t answer. Where are they? They were all here when she left, it’s only been a couple of weeks…

She looks to the ground and sees it – blood and large swathes of mussed dirt. The cauldron knocked over, coals and wood scattered…tents knocked over.

“Stop talking,” Uthvir says and she hears them dismount, “there are signs of a struggle.” Miriel begins to trace the patterns with her body, counting in her head how many there must have been.

“Somebody must have taken them…please, I…I don’t know what happened, they were _here_ ,” she murmurs.

Tent flaps fold and snap in the wind but over that she hears a rustling. Animals had the tendency to keep away from the camp because of the fire and the smell of people, and while rustling wasn’t too uncommon, she rushes to it, blindly hopeful.

She is quick, darting behind a tree to find a wounded Serendipity.

“Miriel?” He gasps. She sets to work immediately, finding the bleeding and pressing down to stem it. But the bleeding…it’s everywhere. His clothes are ripped to shreds, soaked through with blood from his belly and chest.

“HELP US!” She cries out towards the group. Uthvir is suddenly there and inspecting the bleeding elf with her. They tear his clothes, finding more wounds. He begins to cry and Miriel coos at him.

“What happened, Serendipity?”

“We thought you were dead! Your parents wouldn’t hear it though, they went out searching but they didn’t come back. And then this morning _they_ came and…and they took everyone, kicking and screaming or knocked out. I barely managed to escape,” he sobs. Sanaste and the others are quick to join Uthvir and Miriel, pouring out healing spells and replacing them at his body.

“Who attacked you?” Uthvir asks but Serendipity just sobs as he’s poked and prodded.

“ _Monsters!_ ” He cries.

Miriel takes his hand and strokes his hair. Monsters indeed! Who could have done this? Why would they do this? It doesn’t make any sense, how could they –

Serendipity’s sobs turn into full cries as the healers inspect his wounds.

“We need to move him into the camp,” Sanaste says softly.

“No, no, please no, it hurts!”

Miriel pets his hair and winces at his tone, “It’s to help you, Serendipity, we’re going to help you. I know it hurts, but you just need to push through for a little bit, alright?”

Uthvir moves behind him and together they lift the screaming and sobbing Serendipity towards the camp and into Uthbora’s old healing tent. She plays assistant to the healers, wincing and trying not to cry herself as she hears Serendipity’s cries. She hands the healers the herbs and things they need, trying not to look at the apparent mauling Serendipity had been given.

Who could have done this? The barbarism in his wounds…

“You need to leave, Miriel,” Sanaste says.

“No, I can help, I –

“You are poisoning the energy in here with your emotions – it is not a request,” they say again and she bites back a protest.

It goes against everything in her to leave but it’s for him that she’s doing this. She kisses his forehead and bids him to heal before leaving the tent. She has the distinct feeling of being covered in blood and sweat, but it is the persistent _knowing_ that her family is in the hands of people who, who did _that_ to Serendipity.

She stumbles out of the tent and towards the woods, falling to her knees, emptying her stomach in violent nausea. Gasps and sobs leave her in equal measure as her body shakes. They’re all just…gone. She can still hear Serendipity’s cries, in such excruciating pain….

They ran to escape this. Cruel hunters were taking advantage of the chaos – raping and torturing and killing any of those who would fight against them. Factions had developed and those who did not to ally with any either disappeared against their will or on their own terms. Miriel’s parents took the risk and they _ran_.

Serendipity had been terribly abused by the time he had gotten enough courage to run. They had promised him protection, told him they’d do everything they could to prevent what he had suffered from happening again.

And _this_ happened.

She staggers to her feet, stumbling back.

“Miriel, Miriel are you alright?” Darevas asks, suddenly there, his hands on her arms.

She turns to him, a tumult of emotion in her, “ _No._ How could I be?”

Felasel steps forward, large and looming and she can feel the disappointment rolling off of him. He remains silent as Darevas tries to calm Miriel.

“We’ll find what did this, Miriel, we’ll find your family and friends.”

His promises feel hollow.

“When? I…want to go now but Serendipity, I…” she takes a deep breath and tries to ground herself.

“We will leave first thing in the morning. Pursuing the attackers now after a day of riding and with the sun almost down is unwise,” Faunalyn says. She walks up to Miriel and inclines her head to the lords.

“My lords, you are encouraged to remain with the healers and Serendipity while we investigate these kidnappings.”

Darevas shakes his head and looks back down at Miriel, “No. They’re my people too, I should be there for them.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Faunalyn replies.

“The longer we wait, the likelihood that they’re killed increases, we have to go –

“Miriel, listen to me. You are no good to anyone in the state you are in. Everyone here is tired. Be here for Serendipity, recover as much strength as you can and tomorrow we will fall upon whatever did this with a vengeance.” Faunalyn cups Miriel’s face and looks down at her, eerie cat-like eyes that have a soothing sharpness to them. She understands, she was a hunter, she knows.

“Did you know them? Tassan and Caution,” Miriel asks softly. Faunalyn nods and knot loosens in Miriel.

“They’re good people,” she cries.

“They are, and we will find them,” her voice is quiet but hard. Miriel leans closer to her and Faunalyn guides her away from the masked lords.

“I’m going to find them and kill whatever did this,” Miriel hisses.


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for graphic injuries, blood, potential body horror, and gore. …It sounds a lot worse than it actually is, but I’m just making sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darevas and Felasel belong to SeleneLavellan
> 
> Faunalyn belongs to circadian_rythm
> 
> Uthvir belongs to Feynite
> 
> Elanna belongs to LycheePit

Nightfall is slow and every minute drags on with the ever-increasing awareness that her people may be in suffering like Serendipity. His cries have thankfully quieted down and now she just hears him whimper while the healers continue to work. She’s still barred from entering and it kills her to not be able to comfort him.

While they wait for morning and the eventual trek deeper into the woods to find her people, Miriel is caged to a small warded area connecting to her tent. Sh is in her natural habitat but trapped all the same, and it is only then that she realizes that even while her people broke no laws while hiding, they were _freer_ than they would ever be under any lord. And that freedom…there is a high chance that they will save her people only to later execute them in the name of the empire because they will sow sedition.

_We could run to the nameless,_ Varas had suggested once. She thought the idea would be shut down immediately, but it remained with them all for the century. They could _try_ , but the risk…it was in the end too great.

She tries to tell herself that Darevas wouldn’t hurt her people, but it’s a lie. He has been groomed to be an Evanuris and while he may be better than the leadership she previously lived under, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s _good_.

“You look like your mother when you scowl like that,” Faunalyn says, dragging Miriel’s attention from her thoughts.

“Really? Normally people tell me I look like my father but with blonde hair,” she replies, turning to face the older huntress.

“You certainly resemble your father, but your expressions, your concentration – all your mother.”

“But with all the recklessness of my father?” Miriel says and Faunalyn smiles, nodding.

“Yes. And it makes you dangerous,” she continues in an odd light tone.

“I keep it to hunting, I assure you.”

“No assurances needed, being a bit dangerous can serve you well, if you learn how to control it and yourself.” She stands up and leans close to the ward line, “But courting danger like you do will not. Be your mother’s daughter, and play it safe.”

Miriel looks up at her and frowns, “Is that what you tell all young hunters? Play it safe?”

“You need the reminder,” Faunalyn says and Miriel purses her lips. Faunalyn turns from her and heads to her own tent but Miriel begins to speak.

“My mother mentioned you once, it was early on, she had hoped to find you before we ran. She worried for you.”

Faunalyn stops and looks over her shoulder back to Miriel.

“Rest, Miriel, you’ll need it come morning.” She disappears back into her tent. Miriel returns to staring at the fire and worries her lip.

Faunalyn felt like good people, Papae was always going on about good people. He’d list off people he knew were good and said that he knew that each of them were good within minutes of meeting them. Mamae would roll her eyes at him, tell him he was a delightful fool and kiss him. Miriel would leave the room after that, but his words always stuck with her.

Good people.

She asked him once what made a person good. He stopped and looked down at her, smiling.

“ _A person is made good by what is in their hearts and if they listen to it. Both parts are essential, having good intentions means nothing if there are no good actions. Intention and action resulting in the benefits of those who deserve it.”_

She told him that was a terribly subjective definition. Bad people would think they were good because they would benefit those they think are deserving, but were invariably not deserving.

Her father’s face had turned wry and dangerous before he leaned down to whisper in her ear so no one would hear.

“ _All the worst people do._ ”

But she feels Faunalyn is good, even if she is an intimidating and vaguely terrifying sort. Serendipity is good too, as were all the people they lived with. Surrounded by good people she grew used to it. Being brought back into society and suddenly she is surrounded more of the not good sort. Not all _bad_ but certainly not good.

“ _It’s stupid to be good all the time. Sometimes you must be bad to create safety for yourself and for those closest to you._ ” Mamae had told her.

“ _There is only so much good someone can do before it gets them killed – to be good, you must first survive._ ”

She looks at Uthvir, now sitting by the fire, sharpening their many, many blades. They are sharp, and not just because of the spikes adorning their body, but the way they look at people, the way they carry themselves. Faunalyn shifted her eyes to appear more frightening. The princes wear masks. Mamae shaved her head, Papae often wore scales around his eyes and groaned like a crocodile when in unfamiliar situations.

All shrouds to stay alive.

Miriel has no such shroud, but she does believe herself good. After she finds her people and kills whatever took them, she will need to figure out a shroud for herself.

Her thoughts are not comforting, and they just feed the restlessness in her. She needs to rest otherwise she will be of no use. She retreats into her tent and does her best to lull herself into sleep.

One halla, two halla, three halla, four….

Her dreams are disturbing warped memories, disjointed with fear and worry. Her father’s face, without scales but shrouded with darkness and terror.

_Help me._

She wakes before the sun peaks out from over the clouds and is armored before anyone else. Except for Uthvir. She sits in her circle, far from them while they sharpen various blades that they hide on their person.

“Thank you,” she whispers to them. Their eyes flicker up and she continues, “for believing me. You were the first to jump off your halla and support me. You helped Serendipity. Thank you.”

Their gaze returns to the blade in their hand, scraping the stone down. They finish the blade then sheath it back into a small holster on their greaves.

“If I were to come to conclusions about people and situations at first glance, I would not be very good at my job,” they reply.

She watches them fletch arrows and tighten armor and run various chores of setting up for the day. They would have been good to have in the woods, she thinks. A little odd, but they’d like her mamae she thinks.

Pure speculation of course, distraction from the gnawing feeling in her gut. Her cage doesn’t help matters either.

“I could help you, if you let me out,” she calls. Uthvir looks back at her with an eyebrow raised.

“Do not be foolish, it will not go well for you,” they say and return to their tasks. She scowls and turns from them. She forgot she’s a liar, not to be trusted.

She leans back in the dirt and stares at the sky, waiting.

Faunalyn then the soldiers wake next. When the healers come out of their tent with Serendipity, she rises and toes the edge of the ward.

“How is he?” She asks. Sanaste turns to her and slowly treads over, their face dark and bloodstained.

“He will live, though he is scarred. He was bleeding out through his leg so we had to remove it. Only spells of sleep and painlessness have kept him quiet. When we head back he will require much more extensive healing, but we have provided him with what we can here.”

She falls to her knees in gratitude. He will live! Loss of limb can be fixed eventually, with the right healing. And he will be valued, he is a botanist beyond compare.

“Thank you, thank you so much, Sanaste.”

Sanaste tries a smile then wanders off to a tent of their own, probably to pass out.

The princes are the last to wake, drifting out of their tents tall and looking entirely too nice for the woods. Their gear is fine and their masks are out of place in this wilderness. But she has managed to discern Darevas from his brother, she thinks. Felasel likes to keep his hands close to his body, reserved, but Darevas in like most of his mannerisms is more open. His shoulders are back, palms out and he greets people with both voice and hands. Felasel nods his acknowledgement.

Darevas looks over to her, watches her for a moment, makes to come over but then appears to think better of it and walks off with his brother.

It has happened then, he has lost his interest. Very well, she will survive it. She is not without skills after all.

She is not let out of her circle until the they are certain they are ready to go. She makes for her hart immediately and heads for the cave in the sinkhole. This part of the woods is drier than others, the leaves crunch and twigs snap under the hooves of the harts. They cross over a large half-rotten tree and she stops her hart.

“We need to go on foot from here,” she says, “the footing is…unsure, it requires more precision than the harts can provide.” She clambers down from her hart and the others follow suit.

As she promised, the forest floor is…odd. There are old growth trees here, and their roots twine up under the soil, forming bark of their own only to tangle with other roots. Leaves then cover the floor, preventing grass from growing and obscuring the roots from view.

It takes them over an hour of careful footing and searching for any clues to her people.

They find blood, lots of blood.

She swallows back bile and rage. Overwhelming emotion will not serve her or her people now. Her footing becomes more sure, picking up the pace. She rounds over a small hill and sees it below, nestled in an almost valley between hills.

A large tree tipped over, roots up in the air at a sharp angle while the branches reach down in the cavernous sinkhole. Steam rises from the hole, up over the fog that has gathered over the ground.

“That is –

Darevas begins to speak but he is hushed by Uthvir, Faunalyn, Felasel, and Miriel herself. Ominous, yes, they know, and dangerous. Whatever took her people is intelligent, capable of tactics, planning, and kidnapping.

Serendipity’s cry of monsters echoes in her head. His blood still stains her armor. Whatever is in there, are monsters and they will die.

She slinks forward, the rest following her lead. The tree is sturdy and surprisingly not dead. New branches curve up towards the sky and she can feel the disturbed dirt beneath her of new roots. She climbs up on it and moves to the branches, slowly moving down. There is a long rope, secured at the base of one of the thicker branches. The rope leads all the way down to bottom of the sinkhole, but is secured by a crude hook by the cave’s entrance.

A low groaning sound echoes from the cave. Miriel looks over her shoulder and situates herself to fly down.

“I’ll fly down, confirm it’s clear to move in,” she says in a hushed tone. The others nod and she takes off in her eagle form, flying down to the cave’s entrance. The ground is sticky with blood and stinks with death but other than that, she doesn’t see anyone. She shifts back and waves them down.

Those who can shift fly down, while the others repel down the edge of the sinkhole. Miriel stalks forward once everyone is accounted for. Uthvir wrinkles their nose in distaste but all is silent as they move forward.

The cave entrance is long and narrow, only allowing for two, maybe three people to walk side by side. Coagulated blood sticks to the floor and their boots and the stench worsens as they delve further into the cave.

A scream shatters the silence and Miriel makes to bolt when a hand firmly grasps her forearm. She looks over to see Uthvir shaking their head. Right, they need to be level. She swallows and moves more carefully forward.

The cave opens up to a large space with a drop off down to an underground river. There are narrow walkways on the sides of the drop off, leading to another passage on the other side. Faunalyn extends her arm out to halt their movement and stalks forward. She crouches low, peering all around her for any sign of a threat –

A creature drops down on top of Faunalyn and they leap into action. Uthvir is the first to reach her, yanking the bleeding creature off of her to bury a dagger in the throat. They drop the corpse, blood spilling down the stone.

“It’s…a person…” Miriel whispers as she stares at the creature…person. It has the body of an elf, the face of one but it’s _wrong_.

“What happened to them?” She continues. Its eyes are glassy and an unnatural blue, skin a sickly pale laced with blue. Worst of all, it wears Andruil’s vallaslin, a stark black against its skin.

“Is…is this what Mana’din was concerned about?” Miriel asks but Uthvir doesn’t answer, they sheath their blade and hold a finger to their lips then gesture for her to follow Faunalyn. She takes a deep breath, grounding herself before stepping over the corpse and following the older huntress.

“Was that one of yours?” Darevas murmurs and Miriel shakes her head. She doesn’t know them, not even when Andruil ruled.

They creep forward down to an even more narrow passage that only allows one person to pass through at a time. The broader elves grumble as they squeeze their bodies through while Miriel sneaks unhindered.

The passage is short and leads to another open space but this one colonized by tents and animal skins. People live here. There are patterns painted in blood on the walls, illuminated by large fires. Magic suffuses the air making Miriel’s skin itch. It stinks of death and blood and over the crackle of the flames she can hear crying.

She swallows down the need to charge in and carefully moves forward instead. As a group, they secure the room, deactivating traps and wards. Bones from various animals are scattered around, lingering in piles. Some of them have a distinctly elven look to them, running chills down Miriel’s back.

The cries get louder, punctuated with loud clangs and distinct shouts of protest. She can’t stop herself anymore – Miriel turns from the group and heads toward where the cries are originating from. There is another space off of the campsite area.

Filled with cages.

In the cages are the unmoving figures of her people. _No!_ She darts forward to one of the cages. She puts her hands on one of the handles and is blasted back against the wall.

“Ah!” She cries out, falling to the ground as her vision blurs for a moment. Heavy footfalls echo through the space and hands are suddenly on her body.

“Miriel!” Darevas whispers fiercely, hauling her up into a sitting position.

“Ow,” she groans, rubbing at her head. She blinks her eyes open and stumbles to her feet. She’s fine, just a bit jarred. More of the troupe fills the space and they take to disarming the wards and opening the cages.

Miriel names them off, checking their pulses and faces. They’re all alive thankfully but her parents are not among them. Nor is Uthbora, but Varas is there, blinking his eyes open when she rubs at his face.

“Varas,” she says.

He smiles at her and reaches up to her, covered in dirt and blood, most of which looks to be his own.

“Miriel? You’re alive,” he wheezes.

“Yes, but you barely are – what happened?”

“Remember…Enthusiasm? He’s been out here too with…his friends,” Varas begins then coughs. Miriel pulls out her water skin and lets him drink.

“They eat the blue stuff – Miri, it… _sings_.”

Her brow furrows. Singing blue stuff? He’s clearly delirious.

“Where did they take my parents? Uthbora?”

He winces, “They want us to join them, one way or another. That’s all they said.” He coughs again and she gives him more water before looking to Uthvir and Faunalyn.

“We need to stop them,” she says quietly and they both nod. But there is the issue of needing to move forward but also needing to defend those that are here. The healers are still back at the camp, watching over Serendipity. They’re already overtaxed, and to be given this many people who need tending to….

They need Uthbora, every healer that can help is needed and she’s where Miriel’s parents are – further in the cave.

Uthvir turns to the soldiers dedicated to the twins, “Get this group back to the camp to the healers, use the harts to transport them. Lords, I suggest you go with them.” They gesture to their own people and Faunalyn to be with them while Darevas and Felasel both shake their heads.

“We’re seeing this through,” Darevas affirms. Felasel remains quiet – she suspects his desire to remain is not that of his brother’s, but she won’t turn down another sword.

Uthvir sighs, “Very well.”

A soldier lifts Varas out of Miriel’s arms while other soldiers aid those who can walk and carry those who cannot back out the way they came. It leaves just Miriel, Uthvir, Faunalyn, Felasel, Darevas, and three other agents belonging to Uthvir.

They move past the room into another, keeping to the shadows when they see several of the…people standing by the far wall, in what looks to be sadistic versions of old hunter armor. Complete with bones and dyed with blood. They are all streaked with the red of blood and the mysterious blue she saw earlier.

_They eat the blue stuff._

Uthvir turns to her for confirmation that they’re not hers. She shakes her head, notching an arrow in her bow. Faunalyn and one of Uthvir’s agents does the same. She aims for the one of the far left, while Faunalyn and the agent take aim at the two others. They take a simultaneous breath then release the arrows. Her buries into her target’s neck, blood spurting in a bright display. The other targets fall with just as fatal injuries. The small group moves forward quickly and quietly, darting around the bodies and further down into the cave. And down it is – it slopes sharply at a point and they end up at the bank of the underground river she saw before.

Symbols drawn in blood on the walls and floor continue, grizzly warnings of what awaits those unwelcome. Miriel’s hands keep close to her weapons as they continue to stalk forward. They round a corner and hear it –

The clash of steal, grunts, screams, shouts of fervor. _Battle._ Round another corner and she sees it –

_Mamae! Papae!_

Miriel is launching herself down into the fray where her parents are being assailed by what must be close to twenty people. Uthvir and Faunalyn curse behind her before she hears them rally the others into joining her.

She fires arrows into the person attacking her father. He is…missing an arm, fending off his attacker with a short blade in his left hand.

“Is that all you have? Your little potions must only compensate for strength, not skill!” Papae taunts. Before the assailant can respond, Miriel’s arrow lands in his mouth and he is shot back. She turns to another, coming towards her now. She’ll talk to her father later, now she must fight.

The battle is a haze of activity. She finds herself defending more than on the offensive. Blue and blood streaked people fling themselves at her, unnaturally strong and vicious. They hiss and scream at her before she sinks arrows or knives into them. She fights besides her father, covering his right side with all of her new sharp armaments.

One of them jumps down at her and she flings a knife into their eyes. Another comes up to her and manages to tackle her to the ground. She grapples with them until she manages to reach up and wrench their head, breaking the neck in a severe angle.

“Where’s Mamae?” Miriel calls over the battle.

“I’m here, da’len!” She hears. Miriel cuts down another opponent and turns to see her mother, armed with an old rusted spear, goring those that get close to her.

Miriel keeps going until it’s all over in a sudden moment. Her chest heaves and she turns to see Uthvir wrenching a sword out of one of the former hunters.

“Da’len,” Papae murmurs and his arm comes around her, his blood begins to soak into her armor and she pushes him away to do what she can.

“Your arm!” She cries. He looks at it, as if just now registering the injury.

“Ah, yes, they took that to break me. Idiots were holding onto it and as soon as I was free of it, I snatched one of their swords and began cutting them down. Let your mother surprise them too.” But he stumbles from the blood loss and she guides him to a sitting position.

“I need to stop the bleeding,” Miriel murmurs. Mamae is there in an instant. They work together to apply a tourniquet to Papae’s upper arm, whispering the few healing spells they know. She pulls out all the bandages she has to wrap up his arm.

“They said they took you, I knew they were lying – you’re too smart for that,” Papae continues. He looks pale, his orange vallaslin looking entirely too bright against his skin. Mamae scowls at him.

“Reckless, entirely too reckless.”

“Caution, my heart, sometimes waiting is the wrong call –

“They would have arrived and gotten to us –

“How was I supposed to know our daughter was going to show up –

“You did not have to lose your arm!”

“Would you two stop? Papae will be fine, we’re here and can help,” Miriel chastises while she works. Once they’ve bandaged him as best they can, she allows some of the tension to leave her body.

Mamae turns from Papae and takes Miriel’s face in her hands.

“Your face, da’len, what happened?”

“Long story short, the lords that are set to inherit Andruil’s lands found me. They are Dirthamen’s sons, they’re here.” She nods to them and Darevas raises his hand to wave before striding over.

“I am glad to see you are safe,” he says. Both Papae and Mamae incline their heads low.

“My lords, we cannot thank you enough for showing our daughter and us mercy,” Mamae says immediately. Papae remains quiet, though she thinks it may be due to the blood loss making his head a little dizzy.

Darevas inclines his head, “Of course, you are all our people now, it is our duty to ensure your safety.” He turns to Papae’s injury.

“We will be sure to have you healed to the fullest extent once we leave this place.”

“We need to find Uthbora first,” Miriel says and he nods.

“Yes. You could stay with your parents, guide them back to the camp if you wish,” he says. Uthvir and Faunalyn approach after securing the room.

“My lords, I may only have one arm, but it is still good, let me show –

“Dearest heart of mine, you have shown how capable and dedicated you are. Your blood loss is making you delirious,” Mamae says, resting a heavy hand on him. Only then does Miriel look her over, seeing the multitude of cuts and bruises decorating her body.

“Mamae, you’re hurt.” She pulls out more bandages, her last tiny vial of elfroot salve and begins to bandage her mother. Of course she would ignore the injuries, just as Papae does.

“I’ve had worse, da’len. I will live.”

“You’re bleeding!” Miriel protests.

“Go, find Uthbora, I will take your father back to the camp,” Mamae says, cupping Miriel’s face and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. She leans down and helps Papae to his feet, he stumbles and leans heavily against her.

“Elanna, go with them, make sure they back to the camp,” Uthvir instructs and Mamae purses her lips. Miriel nods her okay as the redhead joins in helping Tassan walk. They stumble through the caves and disappear around the bend into the main part of the cave.

They’re alive. She sags in relief against a nearby stalagmite. Missing limb aside, they’re alive, they’ll survive this. But now Uthbora.

She hauls herself back up and inclines her head in thanks to Darevas. She is about to thank him when the cave shakes and a wall explodes, rocking the entire space. Stalactites break and fall to the ground. Darevas and Felasel toss up a barrier, as do Uthvir and Faunalyn but the sharp rocks fall into the other two agents, impaling them.

Uthvir curses and tries to get to them but the room shakes and splits. They bleed out from their wounds in seconds. Darevas and Miriel stumble back, his barrier suddenly collapsing as the footing beneath them gives out and –

“AAAAAAAAH!” She screams, tumbling down into the dark. Her back hits against something hard, jarring her as she crashes to the ground. Darevas yells, and falls to the ground with a loud thud. There is an audible snap and he gasps and cries in pain.

“Arm or leg?” She asks, heaving.

“A-arm,” he says. She rolls to her side and slowly raises herself up.

“DAREVAS!” Felasel shouts down the hole.

“Broke my arm, I’ll live,” Darevas replies. Miriel stumbles to her feet and feels over her body – bruises and scrapes but nothing serious as far as she can tell. The only light filters down from the above space, barely illuminating Darevas’s prone form on the floor. She steps forward then hears it.

Skittering, the telltale sound of boot-falls on stone. They are not alone.

There is movement along the rocks and a familiar voice echoes through the dark, “Miriel?”

“Uthbora! Where are you?” She calls, stumbling to Darevas. He hisses when she gently lays her hands on him, knowing he needs some sort of brace or sling for his arm.

“I…I don’t know, it’s so dark.”

She needs light, she sends up a wisp of light to illuminate the space. A bone protrudes from Darevas’s arm at a sickening angle. Shit. She pats her and his bodies down for anything to help. He has a vial of elfroot that she pours down his mouth but there is nothing else.

Miriel turns towards Uthbora’s voice only to see the gaunt face of Enthusiasm– red vallaslin dark against his pale skin, contrasted to the blue lines bulging from his skin. He opens his mouth revealing razor sharp teeth and hisses.

“What a surprise!” He coos and launches himself at her across Darevas’s body. She screams as he slams into her, knocking her to the ground. His teeth sink into the leather at her shoulder and amazingly tear it away. Long gnarled claws grasp at her, raking across her face in a flash of searing pain.

Miriel reaches down for the knife at her hip, burying it in his side just as he is wrenched off her. The creature shrieks as Darevas pulls him back, magic flaring and flinging him across the room.

“Miriel, are you alright?” Darevas asks, wincing as he moves over to her.

“Got my face but – DAREVAS!” She shouts as Enthusiasm flies back, slamming this time into Darevas. Still bleeding she follows them over, blasting out a spell of light. Enthusiasm hisses as it takes out a large dagger and slams it into Darevas’s stomach.

“NO!” Miriel screams and tackles him to the ground. His body jerks up with an unnatural strength and it is all that she can do to push back and keep him on the ground. He thrashes, straining her hold and she shouts, slamming him against the rock. It jars him and allow her a moment to grab a knife from her boot and stabs him repeatedly between the eyes until his face is a messy pulp of blood and gore.

She drops the knife hastily afterward and climbs over to Darevas.

“Shit, Darevas, no no no,” she says, combing over his body in the injury.

“Are you worrying about me?” He asks, trying to feign humor but his voice warbles and he coughs…blood spurting up.

“You’re so sweet,” he continues, then pauses, “your face….”

“I apologize I am not more presentable, my lord,” she replies, mimicking his humor, “Uthbora! Gut wound, dagger!”

“You need to control the bleeding – is it bleeding with the dagger in it?”

She looks around the dagger but it’s hard to tell with all his armor and clothes –

“I need to remove your clothes,” she says and before he can answer she is tearing his armor and clothes off. She peels the blood soaked clothes off of his body and hisses at the amount of blood flowing from the wound. The dagger had moved somehow, resulting in a large wound than just the blade.

“It’s bleeding!”

“Shit. You need to first make a pad…use his shirt! Then take the dagger out, not too fast not too slow, then apply pressure to the wound. Try to keep it closed until I can get to you – DAMN THIS CAGE!” She shouts. Miriel sets to work, ripping up his undershirt then removing the dagger. Steady, steady she goes, breathing deeply.

Darevas hisses and turns his face from her and she tries not to think about how she could potentially be responsible for his death…his death…

No, no, not thinking about it.

There! She removes the dagger and tosses it aside to quickly apply pressure to the wound. She freezes, holding the pressure down to stop the bleeding. She can feel his heartbeat, the blood trying to spurt out into the rags of his shirt.

“There’s…an easier way to get me shirtless,” he says and she shakes her head.

“Save your breath for life, my lord,” she says in a soft tone.

“You have your hands practically in my stomach…call me by name?” He asks and she smiles, or tries to. Her own wounds protest at the strain.

“Darevas,” she says just as she hears the quick, hard footfalls of the others.

“YOU! Let me out! I can save him!” Uthbora shouts at whoever must be close to her.

“How do we know that you aren’t with these creatures!” Felasel shouts back.

“Because I’m in a cage, you idiot, and I’m the only reason he hasn’t bled out yet. LET. ME. OUT.” She growls back and Miriel flinches.

“Your friend is fearless,” Darevas says, then raises his voice, coughing, “LISTEN, BROTHER.”

It’s hard to tell what happens but there is the sound of metal clacking then running and Uthbora is suddenly at Miriel and Darevas’s side.

“Fools didn’t check my person,” she mumbles and pulls out herbs and poultices out from her clothes. Miriel heeds her words as she begins to work. Her hands are quick and she whispers healing spells that stem the bleeding even more. Uthbora urges Miriel off him, then checks the wound herself. She curses then gestures for Miriel to hold Darevas down while she commands a much larger and powerful healing spell. She draws a blade across her palm and the entire room flares with the force of magic as she forces his body to heal.

Darevas screams as his bones snap back together and his flesh knits itself healed. Miriel sits on his chest and keeps him as still as she can as he writhes through the intensity of the magic. Her arms tremble and her skin burns, blood beginning to flow more freely from her face, inadvertently caught in Uthbora’s powerful healing blood magic.

In a moment the magic dies and Miriel collapses to the ground, bleeding and dirty, her head spinning. She feels Uthbora’s hands on her and her wounds burn with whatever she puts on them. Her legs are shoved off of Darevas and he is pulled away, probably by his brother.

“Did…everything I could,” she wheezes.

_Please do not kill us,_ she prays, but fearing the blows nevertheless. Uthbora angles herself between Miriel and the others while they fuss over Darevas.

“Will…he…live?” She asks.

“Yes,” she replies, face serious as she reaches forward to Miriel’s face. Despite the pain and tingling in her face she feels relief course through her body. He’ll live. Her relief fills the space, open and honest and she grows conscious of everyone falling quiet. Uthbora sets to work at her face and while they are not entirely safe…he will live. And so will she, even if scarred.

They’ll all live.

“Miriel, your face,” she hears Darevas call but he is pulled away. Just as well, his interest will die as soon as he realizes that he may not scar, but she probably will. Mauled in the face, perhaps she should invest in a mask.

That is if Felasel doesn’t take her head first. She laughs bitterly, tasting the metallic bite of blood in her mouth. Wonderful.

She’ll live, she tells herself as the voices of those around her grow distant and her head swims. There is a heartbeat in her head that is not her own and it gets stronger as she gets weaker. She thinks Uthbora swears, more magic fills the room and the heartbeat stops.

Or can she not hear it?

“Da?” Her tongue is thick and her voice soft, but a large hand finds her arm and it makes her think of him.

_Good people,_ thinks.

“Do not die, Miriel, that is…that is a command. Do. Not. Die.”

“ _You…_ not die,” she tries back. It is so difficult, everything in her body is exhausted and there is shouting she thinks. It’s…hard to tell. There is a surge of light and magic and a searing pain that bears into her face.

She screams then the world goes dark and her body limp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	7. Part Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selene, Darevas and Felasel belong to SeleneLavellan
> 
> Uthvir belongs to Feynite

She is getting very tired of passing out. 

When she wakes for the third time in a month, in pain and confused, it is in her old tent. The leather skin of an animal stretched out above her head. Little carved totems scattered about and on her bed of soft animal furs that have kept her comfortable for so long. 

Uthbora leans over her, tending to the bandages wrapped around Miriel’s face. It is odd to only see with one eye while the other remains shut from the swelling. Half of her face feels numb, but at least she can’t feel the itch of the bandages there. There is a stinging in her head, though she is unsure of where that is from if she can’t truly feel the wounds on her face. 

“I had to use a sleep spell to work on you, it was…not good,” the healer tells her. 

“Will I scar?” Miriel asks, her words a bit jumbled from only being able to properly use half of her mouth.

Uthbora shakes her head, “No. I am working hard so that does not happen…it would not be good to have a person so favored by our  _ future lord _ scarred under my care.” 

Miriel shifts uncomfortably under Uthbora’s suddenly intense gaze, “It’s not like this was planned.”

“I would hope not. Facial tissue is difficult to heal with so few resources. Delicate work,” she quips back. But Miriel sees it through her elfroot tinted gaze, there is a glint to Uthbora’s eyes, an up tilt of her mouth. Miriel’s lip turns up.

“You find it romantic.”

“It’s  _ dangerous _ .”

“And who told me that some of the best love stories are dangerous ones?” Miriel asks and Uthbora lets out a sound of protest.

“ _ Stories!  _ Not, not real life.” Uthbora peels the bandage back from Miriel’s face. Her eye remains shut as Uthbora tsks at her work. Miriel feels the pressure of her fingers but nothing else as she works. Magic works into Miriel’s skin, slowly stitching it all together in an uncommon meticulous method. 

“How are my parents?” Miriel asks, hoping to get off the topic. Uthbora finishes cleaning her work on Miriel’s face then leans back.

“Alive. Tassan is still missing that arm but he will have to make do until we make it to a proper healer’s chamber. We could technically regrow it here but it would take more energy than we can spare at the time. Your mother is being held together by sheer will and refuses to rest or let the unknown healers look at her. But I examined her – she will heal, eventually. Serendipity is…troubling. His abdomen… _ he  _ will scar. He saw all of us dragged off, then he was beaten within an inch of his life by Enthusiasm, the very monster who hurt him before found him. It’s…he needs time. Varas is delirious. It seems that he was force-fed one of those foul potions and it’s been a toll getting it out of his system…” Uthbora continues through all of their friends and family. Her face is drawn in concern and there is an obvious exhaustion in her shoulders and eyes. 

Miriel worries herself over all the injuries – though Varas and her parents take center stage in that worry. Force fed that stuff….

“The red spikey one refuses to let anyone talk about what those creatures were ingesting and have forbidden anyone from returning to the cave. Several messages have been sent, though I am uncertain to whom.”

“Most likely the Lady Mana’din and the lords’ parents,” Miriel murmurs. She blinks and lifts her arm, trying to recall everything she can before Uthbora’s sleeping spell. Darevas…he had bled so much, she remembers feeling the blood pour onto her hands and the desperate rush to stop it.

“How…how is he?” She asks softly. Uthbora turns back to Miriel from her small kit of healing supplements. Her face draws into a concerned expression before she replies.

“Well. His abdomen is fully healed as is his arm. Though he is still a bit altered from the blood loss. He…thankfully reneged on the way to replenish blood faster,” she says the last bit so soft that Miriel almost doesn’t hear. 

“And what does that way involve?”

“Sacrifice,” Uthbora says plainly. She smears a sticky poultice over the wounds and murmurs another healing spell. 

They fall into a silence as Uthbora continues to work exceptionally carefully. It’s not that she hasn’t always taken care to be careful, but this seems excessive for a few cuts. But she supposes that Darevas’s interest in her means that those tending to her are under a greater amount of pressure than normal. 

A guard delivers food to them both before disappearing to return to their post. Miriel wonders of what is going on out there. Are more missives being sent? Is there a sense of ease or dread or simple exhaustion? Maybe a bit of all? 

As it is, she falls asleep quickly in her elfroot altered state and wakes to Uthbora urging her up. The camp is packed up quickly and the most injured are placed on harts. Serendipity is maneuvered carefully onto his mount where several quickly engineered straps hold him in. His bright red hair falls over his face and one of the guards takes a rope attached to the hart’s bridle. 

Papae and Varas and several others displace several of the guards from their harts. Uthvir opts to travel on foot as well, handing over their mount to Prowess, who was rendered temporarily blind by the altered hunters. Miriel still wears a bandage over her face so as not to cause alarm by what the healing wounds actually look like. Knitting flesh together to not scar with such limited resources is a longer process and she’s still not fully healed. Uthbora had wondered if they could somehow fashion her a veil, but Miriel told her not to bother. 

All the same, it does not deter Darevas from riding his hart next to hers. He turns to her and watches her for a moment but doesn’t say anything. But she thinks he wants to, there is a cloying need in the air between them. She’s…not entirely sure what to make of it. 

His words from right before Uthbora’s spell come back to her. 

He forbade her to die. Told her to live. Perhaps he has not lost his interest in her. She does not want to presume too much to say that she saved his life, but maybe her aid rekindled his interest? Does he think more noble or good now? 

Miriel finds herself curious to what he’s thinking. His mask gives no clues but she’s beginning to be able to read his body instead. He is rather emotive with it. He leans slightly towards her in his saddle, but he could also just be favoring that side of his body since it is the side of his formerly broken arm. 

But as much as they want to speak to each other, they don’t. Not for the duration of the ride, nor for when they make camp the last night in the woods. Once more Uthbora takes up in Miriel’s tent, though now she shares it with her parents. They fuss at her and each other, asking about her injuries and pain and…a bit about the lords. 

She tells them what is polite.

They appear to be good and kind lords, though Felasel comes across a bit more taciturn than his brother. Darevas is a much more jovial fellow – though both are gifted at combat, magicks, and probably anything they set their minds to. 

She does not mention the midnight stroll with Darevas or the fact that he is the one that commissioned this armor for her. Or the bow. 

Miriel fusses at her parents in return. Still concerned over that missing arm of her father’s that he seems oddly nonchalant about. She knows they can be grown back, that it isn’t really that big of a deal, but it is…unsettling nonetheless to see her father with only one arm.

The next day is the last leg of the trip. They pass through the Eluvian and into the Crossroads, then through another Eluvian leading them directly to a checkpoint that allows them entry into the healing wing of Mana’din’s palace.

A tall, masked figure draped in opalescent black and shadows along with an almost equally tall woman with shining white hair are waiting for them. 

Everyone immediately ducks their heads except for the lords Darevas and Felasel. 

“You told them?” Miriel hears Darevas hiss and whine equally to his brother.

“ _ Of course he told us, _ ” the woman, Miriel presumes, replies. Ah, this must be their mother. She…regrettably doesn’t know much of anything about this woman. Er, lady. She would be a lady being the mother of Dirthamen’s children.

“I am  _ fine _ –

“A broken arm and a  _ stab wound  _ are not fine, young man.”

Miriel bites back a snicker. It seems that not even lords are free from motherly concern and reprimands. Their mother and presumably their father, the high and mighty Lord Dirthamen, are quick to escort Felasel and Darevas away. Once assured all the incredibly important and powerful lords and lady have vacated the area, Miriel looks up, her face still partially covered. At least having a face covered is not considered insulting in these parts. 

They are all guided back into the healer’s annex and a flurry of activity begins. Serendipity, Papae, Varas, and Prowess take center stage in the scramble to get everyone healed. The healers that accompanied them all, however, are given a reprieve as more are brought in. Even Uthbora is commanded to lie down in a cot and be examined and allowed rest for her ordeal. 

The next few hours are not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. The first hour is filled with Serendipity’s and Papae’s screams as their limbs are regrown and attached to them in an efficient but terribly brutal sounding fashion. 

Varas writhes in the bed next to her, claiming he needs more. More of whatever they fed him, she guesses. She tries to reach over to run a soothing hand over his brow, but her healer keeps her down to the cot. 

The healing magic woven over her is more powerful than Uthbora’s, forcing her skin to knit together in a seamless pattern. The pain is stinging and encompassing. Tears stream down her cheeks and her feet kick out at it. It is quick but it works. The healer steps away and turns to help the healer standing over Varas. 

Miriel’s hands reach up to her damp face, tracing over where the claw marks had been. She traces them back and finds it…the remnants of a scar – more of a bump of puckered skin, smaller than her pinky nail, just under her ear. 

_ She survived _ . 

Her own little token of what she lived. But she knows how exacting everyone can be, how the standards are, and she hides it with a simple shift. It is a little energy sink, but if she starts now, she’ll get accustomed to the strain eventually. While she may not be the most talented shifter, she can do this small thing.

When the screaming stops, Miriel brings herself to sit up and look for her father. Mamae walks out from behind a screen, covered in bandages and smelling so potently of elfroot that it’s almost overwhelming. 

“He is adjusting to his arm again, but he is fine and the pain is quickly subsiding,” her voice is strained and full of exhaustion. But her relief is palpable. Miriel smiles and her mother returns the gesture.

“Your face,” she whispers, cupping it, “radiant as ever.” 

Miriel smiles at her mother before she leaves again to tend to Papae. With her healer distracted, Miriel rises from her cot and sneaks over to the sectioned off area containing Serendipity. His healers are working overtime to heal him even running soothing magic over the majority of his abdomen. Already pink, raised flesh mars his abdomen once only covered by freckles. He is no longer legless, but his hair has been shorn close to his head. 

“Serendipity,” she whispers, kneeling by his cot. Red-rimmed slate-grey eyes flick over to her and he tries to smile.

“Miriel, you saved us.”

“I wasn’t fast enough –

“What are you talking about?” He whispers, reaching a hand out to her face.

“We’re all alive. It’s a miracle.”

“Your scars…” she says, wincing at how painful they be. He sighs and glances down at them. 

“They are unpleasant, but they can be covered and in time…I will heal. I have that chance because of you.”

She feels undeserving of his praise, but she won’t argue with a man on the table. She leans against him in companionship while the healers continue to work over him. He winces and cries out a few times, but he is healing. It’s all just healing pains. 

Miriel remains with Serendipity until an irate Sanaste finds her. Their eyes narrow at her, hair spiked up around their end in a comical halo. 

“Please, just…listen to your healers,” they plead.

She has been remiss about listening to them…

Serendipity nudges at her, “Go. It’s alright, I will live. But come back later, please.” She runs a hand over his forehead and nods.

“I will, thank you for taking care of him,” she tells the healers. They nod at her while Sanaste takes her hand and guides her back to the cot. They scowl at her as they take their seat from before. Their hair sticks out at sharp angles and they do not take care to disguise the dark circles under their eyes or the rumpled quality of their clothes.

“Did they really wake you up to watch me?”

“Yes.” Is the only response she is given. Well, then. She was just visiting Serendipity, it wasn’t like she was running away. Seriously, when were they going to stop thinking she’s going to run at any moment? Her people are  _ here _ , they are  _ injured _ , and she is still recovering from her own injury. 

Have the people of the empire always been this distrustful? She…it’s hard to recall sometimes. And she is not sure if her experiences are accurate either given how close it was to Andruil’s demise. 

She stays put, mostly because Sanaste deserves rest and not to be chasing after her – even it if it is just to check on her people. She does angle herself to get a better look at them all though, stretching her back and neck over the cots to look down. 

Prowess’s eyes are healed but her irises appear to be different. Broken, but…not. Almost like stained glass. Varas next to her moans as he sweats. His healing is taking the longest and it does not ease any of her concern. What were they planning to do? Yes, turn them all into creatures like themselves, but beyond that…why? What happened? 

Several people dressed similarly to Uthvir walk down the annex and she moves to the edge of her cot.

“Excuse me, are…are you returning to the woods?” She asks and they look at each other.

“All operations are confidential, we can neither confirm nor deny what we may or may not be doing,” one answers. Her lips purse but she waves them on. Frustrating, secretive, distrustful people. 

“Relax, do you know the meaning of that word?” Sanaste sighs and she shrugs.

“Maybe not. But I am just…look at my people,” she gestures to the room and they nod.

“Your people who are being healed, and most of whom will be fine come the morrow,” they answer on a yawn, stretching their body over the chair. Miriel narrows her eyes at them then glances over at Varas.

“They are my family. All of them, I want them safe and healed yes…but I also want to understand what did this to them,” she replies. Sweat drips down Varas’s body and his hazy green eyes open briefly. Her heart clenches.

“And I want justice,” she murmurs so low that only her eyes catch it. But Sanaste raises an eyebrow at her all the same.

“Have some patience,” they tell her. It’s something she’s been told before, her mother’s words echoing in her head, teaching her how to hunt. Patience is what allows you to wait for the prey, to wait for the best moment to strike. 

Tamping down the need to jump in head first is difficult, but she settles against the cot and tries.

Sanaste takes their supper with her, and falls asleep in their chair soon after. Varas is moved to a sectioned off section of the annex where a new shift of healers take him on. Most of the healers retire for the night, assured that most of their work is done. Some do keep watch over the charges, and guards file in as the daylight fades away to darkness. 

Restlessness plagues Miriel as everyone around her falls asleep. The annex is filled with soft and not-so-soft snores, the rustle of beds as people turn over. She hears Serendipity moan in his sleep at one point, and his father ask if her mother would like to push their cots together. 

The night drags on and sleep evades her. She’s not sure when exactly in the night the door to the annex creeks open, but a cloaked figure slips into the annex and quickly shuts the door behind them. She lifts herself up in the cot, curious and wary. 

“Who –

“Shh!” The figure interrupts and she grins. 

“Darevas, what are you –

“SHH!” He shushes her more firmly and she bites back a giggle. He hurries to her bedside and gestures for her to get up and follow him. She glances at Sanaste and then back at where her parents are sequestered away, nibbling at her lip.

She shouldn’t, oh she knows she shouldn’t. 

But that doesn’t stop her from taking his hand and letting him lead her down dark hallways and back to the night garden. Once inside, they stop, slightly out of breath from the run. 

“Should you really be running so soon after your injuries, my lord?” She asks, mostly in a playful tone. 

“I don’t know,” he replies, turning to her as he lowers his hood, “should you?” 

The sight of his face takes her off guard for a moment. His blue eyes framed by dark lashes, high cheek bones, luminescent skin that does not look worn or dehydrated or blemished in any fashion. His hair is askew from the running and the hood and she wonders if he even brushed it before making his escape from whatever place they had him in. 

“Um,” is all she can say as he takes a step forward, closer than normal. Miriel surprises herself and doesn’t step away, if anything she resists the urge to lean forward and touch what she suspects are very soft robes. 

“You saved my life. I-I wanted to thank you for that; myself. I told mother and father and they want to recognize your and Uthbora’s efforts – probably some good ranking positions or something, but I wanted to thank you personally.”

Oh. 

She blushes and looks away from him for a moment. 

“I could hardly stand by and let you die,” she whispers.

“Is that all?” He asks and she sucks in a breath. No, but saying so gives him even more power and she doesn’t know…

She turns back to him. A mistake because the boy is too damn beautiful for his own good. And he looks so sweet, in plainer clothes, hair mussed.

“I am…very glad you did not die,” she murmurs. Her heart leaps into her throat as his hand comes up. Fingers graze against her jaw up to her ear, pausing over the raised flesh. 

“A tiny scar?”

“I was, um, distressed, but it’s tiny and I can disguise it if you wish,” she stammers, quick to shift it away. She let it out hours ago, had forgotten about it while he swept her away. Embarrassment and worry flutter from her and she averts her eyes.

“You don’t need to change a thing,” his voice soft and reassuring, sending shivers down her spine. Not a thing? And not just specific to the scar there, but perhaps the other scars, and the rest of her body.

Maybe even how she’s acted. 

“Thank you, that is very reassuring.” She inclines her head and pauses to look at his abdomen. All at once she is filled with remembering his blood gushing out of him, the sickening sound of his bone snapping…

Her arms lifts and her hand lands against his stomach on its own accord.

“Are you really all right?” She asks softly, unable to keep her worry shielded. His clothes rustle as he begins to shift his robes away from his chest and abdomen.

“Darevas, what –

His intentions become clear when he reveals his stomach – smooth, unblemished, and completely healed. He takes her hand gently and lays it against where the wound was. No blood, no torn flesh – just…him, whole and healed Darevas. 

Her fingers splay out over where she held his undershirt against him. There is some give in his skin and the flutter of muscle – all normal and good. She can’t even tell where the dagger had been thrust into him, it’s…amazing really. 

The worry leaves her, replaced with relief. 

“Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you,” he says and she shakes her head.

“Not about the healing but this, for showing me. I…I need to know.” 

He chuckles, “Feel away, and feel free to wander if you wish.” He wiggles his eyebrows at her and she rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. She angles her nails gently against him and wiggles her fingers in a playful tickling move.

“Are you so certain?” She teases. His eyes light up and he gasps, seizing her wrist to pull her hand flush to him again.

“Yes,” he tells her. She swallows at the weight in his tone. The air turns serious as quickly as it had playful, though not grim, just…meaningful. 

He sways forward just as she leans toward him. Close, but far due to his height. His hand is warm and angling her head up so she can meet his gaze. Her name falls from his lips – exceptionally nice lips, she notices. Why hasn’t she noticed before? They seem…very important right now. 

“Darevas,” she says, not entirely sure why. There’s no thought to it, just…a leaning towards him. A flicker in his eyes and a pressure in her heart. He bends in closer and she leans forward.

His lips brush against hers, far more hesitant than she’s ever seen him. She brings her freehand to rest on his chest, his heart hammers in his chest and she smiles despite herself. His nervousness makes her brave and she leans up on her toes to press her lips more firmly to his. 

It’s probably a mistake. It’s probably a bad idea, her heart will probably break. But she shoos those thoughts away and enjoys his lips on hers, the little sharp intake of air when she kisses him. He kisses her back and she has to control herself not to smile and stop the kiss too soon. 

The pressure in her heart blooms forth – spurring her to move her lips more confidently over his. He responds in kind. 

They pull away only to breathe but she pauses, lids heavy and eyes gazing at him. His lips are pinker and she feels the air spike with arousal. She reaches up and brushes his hair from his forehead.

“That…is one way to thank me,” she breathes. He chuckles before pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

“I would say it’s a bit more than thanks,” he says, making her smile and turn her head just for a moment –

To see a very distinct figure with white hair standing in the doorway, eyes wide and eyebrow raised. 

Oh for –

Miriel drops to her knees and bows her head, embarrassment staining the air. 

“Miriel, what – Mama!” 

“Please tell me you did not sneak out of the healer’s just to come make out in a garden,” his mother says. 

She can’t believe this is happening. This is  _ not  _ happening, nooo. It’s one thing to run off with the lordling in the middle of the night and kiss – it is quite another to get caught by his mother. 

“That was not the intention,” Darevas says. 

Should she apologize now? Or is that speaking out of turn? Should she just stay frozen here for a while? 

Miriel sees his mother move forward, slippers moving quickly over the path, thinking not of the dirt as she approaches her son. 

“You should be  _ resting _ . Not gallivanting in the night gardens.” To her credit, his mother sounds very normal. Fussing and concerned but loving in the way that mothers are. Miriel still doesn’t move but she appreciates the apparent normalcy between Darevas and his mother. 

“Miriel, please stand up, there’s no need,” he tells her in a soft voice. Miriel glances up at him and his mother, slowly rising to her feet but keeping a hunched posture. Not that she really needs it – they’re both significantly taller than she is.

“Please don’t be frightened, you’re not going to be punished or anything. Let me guess, he brought you in here?” 

Miriel nods slowly.

His mother turns back to Darevas and crosses her arms, “Back to bed, both of you. I understand you suffered an extensive injury as well?”

Again, she nods.

“Back. To. Bed.”

Darevas opens his mouth to protest but his mother’s gaze is strong. He thinks better of it before turning to Miriel and inclining his head.

“My apologies, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my lord,” she says back and attempts a curtsy. His brows knit together briefly before shaking his head and making for the door. His mother lingers for a moment to smile politely to Miriel.

“I’m sure your parents want you back in bed as well,” she says before following her son out of the garden. As soon as she’s out of sight, Miriel lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. 

Everything happened so quickly and a bit rashly. She…should not have kissed him, or touched him, or come away with him. But at the same time, she’s glad she did. Darevas is, himself, a good person. She’s not sure if that will translate to him being a good leader, and she almost fears that he will be passed over in favor of his much colder brother. 

She curses. If he was just a hunter or even a high-ranking attendant or something this wouldn’t even be that big of a problem. But an eventual leader? Practically a god with his power and ability? 

Miriel has only just rejoined society, and while she isn’t completely wild – she doesn’t know entirely how to conduct herself in this world. She is young and foolish and headstrong, she knows this. And as much as her heart wants to get as involved as it can with the young lord, she ultimately knows better. 

She returns to the annex, head heavy with thoughts and finally exhaustion. She collapses onto the cot and falls into a deep sleep. 

The next day is filled with more healing. The healers cluck over her tiny scar and attempt to undo it, but she hides it for their benefit. 

About halfway through the day, several official people stroll into the annex. Their robes are fine, faces painted, and they carry themselves in the way only the highly ranked do. Miriel straightens her back just seeing them and tries not to appear to out of sorts to offend them. They stop in the center of the room and one steps forward with a large book.

“Good afternoon, formerly woods people,” she begins, “we are currently in the process of obtaining all records concerning your placements before the unfortunate fall of the beloved Lady Andruil. While they are being recovered and you are recovering, my associates and I are going to talk with each of you briefly about your former placements and skills. We are hoping to incorporate your all back into society, after confirming that no laws were broken during your time in the woods. Please answer truthfully and to the best of your capabilities.” 

All ten of them fan out and take seats by Miriel’s people. The man that sits next to Miriel takes out his own book, though this one smaller and less wieldy. 

“Name, age, and parentage if applicable,” he begins.

“Miriel, one hundred thirty seven, father is Tassan, formerly Tenacity, and mother is Caution.”

“You are young, what position did you hold before your lady’s untimely demise?”

“Hunter, lower ranked,” she answers. 

“Any skills obtained while outside of society?” He writes quickly into his little book.

“Yes. But everything is on basic, basic levels.”

“Still, for the record, if you please.”

“Then, tanning, botany, healing if I am in a bind, but nothing so great as to make me useful as a healer. I also learned how to make clothes, fletch arrows, basic farming – we had a small pasture of foods. I can also cook, make some potions, dance, and of course hunt. My hunting has been greatly refined over the years.”

He scribbles everything down, nodding.

“That is expected, good. Where do you think you would be most useful?”

“Hunting.”

“What about security? Many hunters have been relocated to security positions in cities recently and it has provided to be good outlets for them.”

“I…I don’t think so.”

“How well do you work in groups?”

“Very well. I often hunted partnered with Varas and sometimes with my parents. I am able at trapping, tracking, and assisting fellow hunters.”

“How well do you learn new things? If a hunting position does not work out, we will need to find a place for you.”

“I would say good. I had to learn many things while in the woods for survival and none of my instructors complained.”

“Good to hear!” 

He writes a great deal more and asks her various other questions about what she is capable of in addition to specific hunting skills. He is a lot more knowledgeable in hunting than she first expected but perhaps he was formerly one. 

“Do you have any idea of where we’ll end up?” She asks after a while. 

“I am thinking most of you will go to Ama’lan.”

“Ama’lan? It’s a tiny village on the outskirts, surely they have no room –

“Much has changed in the past hundred years. That tiny village has become a prosperous city, built up quickly in the wake of destruction of several other outposts. And while many have ended up in the city, few hunters have made it there. Ama’lan has blossomed into a trade center, but it still needs people to keep it properly going and growing.” He pulls out a map and shows her. The trade routes have changed and places she once knew have disappeared entirely. When put in the scope of things, it makes sense of Ama’lan’s sudden growth and popularity. Thanks to an expanded Eluvian network, Ama’lan sits well within the Crossroads to have trade between not just Mana’din’s territory but also Dirthamen’s. Clever. 

Andruil’s capital city, Emmassan’an, still stands, as do several other stops on the highlighted trade routes. In the center and top of the map are the woods. They have grown since she last saw, but she supposes that is to be expected after the chaos. 

What’s odd is that she has heard of no issues with the Nameless. As young as she was, she knew about them, about the threat they posed to the Empire. But she keeps her curiosity about them silent, she does not need to worry the managers. 

The manager closes the map and opens his book again. 

“Anyways, thank you for your cooperation,” he leans in close, “I’ve been instructed to ensure you and Uthbora get choice picks of the positions. Once we have more information, I will let you know the specifics.”

“Oh, thank you. What of my parents?” She asks softly.

“They will be placed where they are needed, but do not worry, we are uninterested in splitting them up,” he says then packs up his things and heads over to where her parents are still hidden away. 

Miriel nibbles on her bottom lip and thinks about it. Her choice of position. She did tell Darevas she didn’t want to lose that freedom of hunting. She flops back onto the cot, raising her hands to her forehead. 

What was she going to do? It’s not like she wants to not court Darevas or be courted by him. But the idea of him having that power, of her having no power in return, or any standing to speak of… Would it be remiss of her to ask for time?  _ I like you and I like the idea of courting you, not leader-you but you-you, but can you just…put a pause on that?  _

Right, because that would go over  _ so  _ well. 

It is tempting to take the position, if there is one, in Ama’lan. She could get her place, near her parents, but her own. Set up her own life, be confident in her position as an integrated citizen of the empire. 

That…sounds blissful almost. To have a routine where she is not terrified of what could happen, and just be allowed to live. She could do what she does best, and be happy. Which is the ultimate goal in life really – to be happy, to help others be happy. 

Darevas makes her happy. 

Over the next few days, she thinks heavily on it. Darevas doesn’t visit her, but she assumes he is laid up and locked away. It’s good though, it gives her space to think and to plan her words carefully. 

As the days pass, rumors and news pass through the annex by way of gossiping healers. It’s the apparent reason why the lords were at Mana’din’s palace instead of elsewhere apparently. There is to be a festival of some sort. As the days for it draw closer, the more the annex becomes the hub of gossip and activity. Because of the festival, everyone is busy with it rather than properly allocating everyone to positions and such. 

Varas is the last to recover, his mind fragmenting into the Dreaming in strange, delusional ways, to be brought slowly back together by the healers. It is a slow, agonizing process, and one Miriel hopes for the best.

She slips into his room one morning, before the healers come and she crouches at his bedside. She draws a gentle finger over his forehead and holds his hand. His brows draw together in his sleep and he turns his head towards her.

“Miri…?” He murmurs.

“Hi,” she whispers back. 

He takes a deep breath and cracks open his eyes, “You came back for us. I didn’t thank you for that.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I would have died. We all…they wanted to eat us Miriel. We either joined them or they  _ ate  _ us.”

She resists the urge to vomit and winces instead. 

“That is…how did we not know? We were right there.” Not even a full day’s journey away, just there…their people that went missing…she didn’t see any of them…

Oh…oh  _ no _ .

Varas sighs and leans back into his bed. 

“So thank you for coming. I couldn’t…I don’t want to end up in someone’s stew.”

“You’d do terribly in stew,” she tells him, trying to lighten the mood, “you’re entirely too stringy.”

He smiles and coughs. 

“Focus on getting better now – they’re all dead, they can’t get to you.” It’s the last thing she can reassure while he falls back asleep, his breathing evening out and his body going lax. He will recover, he will. Everything heals in due time, and they have that. All the time he needs. 

She rises from his bedside and heads back to her cot to see Serendipity up and walking around, with healer supervision of course. But he smiles at her and continues to practice walking on his new leg. He wiggles his foot and she smiles at him.

Progress is progress.

The more he gets the hang of walking, the more often Miriel sees him heading for the baths. Since they are so close, he luxuriates in them almost daily, exclaiming how wondrous they are. The healers don’t have it in the heart to stop him. Miriel and Uthbora are the ones who most frequently join him. They sit on either side and braid his hair while he waxes on about all the plants he wants to curate in this new chance he has.

There is still a sadness to him, but he wants things to be better  _ so much  _ that it spurs him on. He has his moments, his long, painful moments, but they try to make up for it with good moments on top of good moments. 

Miriel spends most of her days with her parents. They discuss various options and potential opportunities. Mamae talks about being potentially traded out to Mana’din or Mythal considering her service record makes her a good candidate for security or even spy work if necessary. Papae holds very obvious distaste for the idea, particularly since there is very little chance he will be traded out. Miriel tells them of Ama’lan and they seem to be in agreement that it would be best. 

At night, she wonders what Ama’lan looks like, what the people are like there. What do they eat there? There is a river that it sits on – she wonders what that’s like. Is the water dirty? Is it warm or cold? Are the fish tasty? 

When the day of the festival arrives, she decides she wants to see the proceedings, but then an odd thing happens. The door to the annex opens and none other than the Lord Darevas slips in. He is dressed in warm hues, his mask is gold and full of embellishments surrounding the eyes, while autumn colored feathers poke out from the sides.

“My lord?” She asks, curious as he quickly strides to her cot seat.

“Would you like to come to the festival with me?” He asks in a rush. The annex falls silent. Miriel raises her eyebrows and stammers for a moment. 

“I…I have nothing to wear,” is the lamest thing that comes to mind so of course it is the thought that is voiced. Darevas, to his credit, waves.

“That can be easily fixed.” 

She nibbles her lip. Sanaste looks exhausted, even still, and everyone’s eyes are on her. 

This…was not part of the plan but she leans up and takes his hand. 

“I’d be honored, my lord,” she replies and the air suffuses with his happiness at her response. He guides her to his rooms where attendants take care to quickly fix her hair and dress her in a simple but beautiful robe. It comes in two parts – the first layer is a simple golden shift with thick bead work at the square collar. The second layer is a black, capped sleeve robe that is wrapped around her waist and flows all the way to the floor. They give her gold thread foot wraps and pull her hair into an up do that rests at the back of her skull. Her cheekbones are dusted with gold and her scars are hidden, but not much else is changed. They keep her face mostly free of any paints, only the gold around her cheeks and brows. Almost like a mask of her own. 

She emerges to the sitting room and Darevas leaps to his feet. She smiles at him and swishes the robe at her feet.

“This is very different from armor.”

“You are…breathtaking,” he compliments, coming to her. A hand lands on her waist, another gently in her hair. 

“Careful now, you wouldn’t want people accusing me stealing your good breath. I’m sure they already think I have stolen your blood,” she quips. 

“They cannot simply arrest you for being beautiful,” he says and she blushes fiercely. 

“Smooth talker.” She reaches up and rests her fingers gently against the jaw of his mask. He reaches up and takes her hands. 

“Come! The festival awaits.” He leads her giggling out from his rooms and towards the main hall of the palace. 

The rest of the day and most of the night is spent in his company, laughing and dancing to the vibrant music played by Mana’din’s musicians. There are people in colorful costumes, dancing and reveling. She is assured that this is a festival for all, and that even the lower ranked peoples are celebrating tonight. She’s not entirely sure what the celebration is, though someone says it’s a tradition in the area at the end of the harvest season. And it has been a very good season.

Lord Dirthamen and his Lady seem to even be in good spirits as they float through the spaces. Mana’din herself seems aloof but largely content to see everyone enjoying themselves. 

At one point, Miriel spies Uthvir lounging against a wall besides a tall, blonde man, smiling happily at him. Felasel does not dance, but even the air around him is light. Everyone is simply  _ being  _ and enjoying themselves, not suspecting her or her people. It is a genuinely happy time.

What she does not expect to see is all of her people who are fit to stand and dance enter the hall, bunched together.

Darevas leans down to her ear, “I was not about to exclude them, they are my people too.” Her hand comes to rest on her chest, overcome with happiness and gratitude. They are all still in plain robes from the annex, but they look happy enough to be among others. The music continues and her people begin to dance. Papae takes Mamae out onto the floor, Uthbora and Serendipity come out too. Miriel laughs and spins back to Darevas.

She lets herself go as she dances and revels, not thinking about lords and courtship, but just herself and happiness. Darevas guides her through it all, spinning her across the dance floor, directing her through dances she does not even know. They drink and eat and everything is full of wondrous pure merriment. 

Darevas directs her off the floor after a long while, catching his breath and she hers. They meander to a balcony and seals them off in a barrier of privacy. She is giggly from the punch and Darevas leans into her, loose and unguarded in their own little bubble. 

“Watching you dance and be free was amazing,” he breathes and she smile, spinning around.

“It was fun! Thank you for…all of this. You didn’t have to.”

He eases his mask to rest on top of his head. His face is painted, highlighting his eyebrows and bright warm colors surrounding his eyes. His smile so wide and happy.

And she has to tell him.

He pulls her close and leans down, aiming to kiss her, but she turns her head. He remains undaunted and kisses her cheek. 

“I have been thinking about the other night,” he says against her skin.

“Darevas…”

“How you tasted, how it felt.” He kisses her cheek again, closer to her mouth.

“I –

“You have occupied my mind completely,” he kisses her closer still until she gently pushes against his chest.

“Darevas, I-I’m leaving.”

He freezes and leans back, confused.

“What?”

“There is a position in Ama’lan for several hunters. I told the managers I want one.”

He blinks, “Did- did they tell you about the opening in my guard? Because I have one, I do!” He explains and she nods.

“They did. And while  _ you  _ make me happy, and I like this…I would not like being your guard. I want…I need to know who I am in this world, in your world, outside of courting you. And trust me, you want that too.” She reaches up and caresses his face, drawn in sudden confusion and disappointment.

“I make you happy?” He whispers and she nods, smiling kindly.

“You do, tonight has been one of the best times I have had. But I have no standing in this world, no income, no ties, no place. I want to be able to stand, a proud actual hunter who contributes to society with you. I want to  _ want  _ you, not depend on you and continue on because I have to.”

He frowns but leans his forehead against hers and takes a deep breath.

“I understand.”

A gigantic weight eases off her chest. She…was a lot more worried than she had realized, telling him this. She strokes his face and continues.

“But you can always write, and I am not against visiting, or little rendezvouses,” she suggests. He makes a small sound then sighs, running his hands up her arms.

“Will you write back?”

“Yes.”

He pauses then pulls back, a small smile gracing his features, “That is fair. Perhaps it is good to get some distance, allow for a more formal courtship. And this way, I have time to commission even more gifts to win you over.”

She snorts, “If that pleases you.”

“It does. So…Ama’lan. It’s a nice enough place, it’s by a river,” he says and she chuckles. 

“I haven’t been, but I look forward to exploring it. My parents also are going there, as are almost all of my people.”

“I’m glad,” he replies, turning to the city the balcony overlooks. Nervousness returns and she knows that it’s not easy, not what he wants to hear or have happen. But she’s not saying ‘no’ exactly, just…asking for time. Something they both have.

“I think we exercise wisdom and be patient, we’re so young,” she tells him, joining him, leaning against the bannister. 

“I know. My mother said something to that effect the other day.”

Miriel leans against him and sighs, “But there is nothing saying we can’t enjoy the rest of the night. I just...you should know my decision before anything more happened. I want there to be a future between us, I just need to make sure I have a future to begin with.” She reaches for his jaw and gently directs him to look at her. 

His bright eyes blink and he turns to look at her. He moves so that she is pressed against the bannister and his back is to the entrance. He cups her face and bends down.

This kiss is more sure than the other, and they are more eager to press against each other. He cradles her head and she slides her hands up his front. He tastes of the wine and sweets they’ve been consuming all night, tart and sweet berries. She leans into him and sighs, deepening the kiss and sucking a lip into her mouth. 

A soft sound slips from him and he angles her back, twining his tongue with hers. 

There is a great cheer from down below and she breaks away in sudden awareness. But then there is a loud screech and she huddles back towards Darevas. The night sky then explodes in a riot of color. It shines through the darkness, illuminating everything below in a beautiful and cacophonous display. 

“Oh!” She exclaims to Darevas’s barely audible laughter. His arms come around her.

“I’ll protect you from the fireworks, don’t worry.”

“They’re beautiful!” 

His chin rests on her head and she leans more fully into him, happy to watch it with him. 

**

The festival lasts for a month, which ends up being the time it takes to get Miriel’s people ready for their departure for Ama’lan. Darevas is there to see her off, gifting her Elma the Hart she had ridden into the forest earlier. He keeps his distance surprisingly enough, mask in place as he walks beside her.

“I am already composing my first letter,” he tells her. She smiles and ducks her head.

“I look forward to reading it.”

“Do miss me in Ama’lan,” he jests.

“I’m sure I will, my lord,” she replies, leaning slightly closer to whisper under her breath, “as I hope you think of me.”

He leans down in kind, “Frequently, and often inappropriately.”

“My lord!” She laughs, blushing but delighted. She turns towards her hart to see her mother scowling at the two of them. She worries, Miriel knows. But this is a risk Miriel is willing to take, and besides, he is letting her go essentially. And without so much of a protest either. 

She thinks of Darevas’s mother, how perhaps her status has benefited him from being as demanding as he could have been. He’s really been great about it. He had some of the managers acquire as much information about the surrounding lands of Ama’lan for her to educate herself on, as well as found city district planning and where she is most likely to find a home in. He let her take this information to her people and they gathered around, learning about their new home. 

And now, they are all packed up and heading there. A city on the river, surrounded by flowering trees and rolling hills. Most of the game is smaller – foxes, deer, and a few wild beasts made by Ghilan’nain several centuries ago. 

Upon learning all of this, Darevas had hummed and leaned back in his chair, musing about building a summer dwelling there. She had laughed at him, kissed his cheek and informed him that he could do what he wanted in that regard with his being a lord-to-be and everything. 

Varas continued to recover and he now rests upon a hart, whole and mostly healed. His eyes still strain sometimes and he is prone to cold sweats at night. Serendipity is scarred and quiet most of the time, but he smiles sometimes, hopeful of the promises of his new garden and place as a botanist in Ama’lan. Uthbora surprisingly enough is to be considered an apprentice in healing in the city to finally finish her training. 

They are all ready, cleared after questioning by much more understanding agents of Uthvir’s. It seems that after the initial discovery of Miriel, their attention was diverted more towards containing whatever still lurks in the woods.

With the questioning out of the way and all the records verified – they are free to be. It’s a tad overwhelming when Miriel thinks about it too much. But she accepts it, eager to begin her new life. 

Darevas helps her up into her hart and she smiles down at him. 

The future is bright, even if a bit unsure, but she has a good feeling. Her father takes the first step through the Eluvian, and she is quick to follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
